Curlilocks and the Magic Mirror
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: A supermodel tinkers with her looks, while Christian, Leslie and Anna-Kristina battle a dog. Follows 'A Question of Flaws'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Partial post...the rest is in progress. Something of a comedy this time around...hope you enjoy, and as ever, thanks to PDXWix, jtbwriter, Harry2, Kyryn and BishopT!_

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§ § § -- March 29, 2003

Their second fantasizing party on this spring morning made Roarke smile. "So she did come," he said, "after nearly backing out twice and having to reschedule four times. Ms. Lori Browne, from Akron, Ohio—but you and the rest of North America know her better as Miss Jasmine Bellflower, residing in New York City."

Leslie stared at the whip-thin supermodel picking her way down the landing dock in four-inch heels, followed by two of the young native men each carrying three bags. In the woman's arms was a tiny, fluffy dog. "Okay," she said, "let's say I assume that each and every person on this planet has a fantasy," she said while Roarke studied her curiously, "and let's say that I accept that. Let's also assume that some fantasies are more obvious than others."

"Very well," agreed Roarke, playing along.

"I am also," Leslie went on, "operating under the recollection of having seen this woman's request letter some months back, along with the further recollection that it was something weird. So I'm going to make the semi-educated guess here that she wants to be ugly and not famous for one weekend."

Roarke grinned broadly. "You are at least in the general district, if not in the same neighborhood as the actual fantasy," he said. "But it's too obvious. No, as a matter of fact, the lady's fantasy is to improve her looks."

"I knew it was weird!" Leslie said, snapping her fingers. "I just forgot _how_ weird. And why, pray tell, would a supermodel want to improve the looks that brought her fame and fortune in the first place?"

"She's quite insecure, I'm afraid," Roarke said, "and hides it beneath a demanding and very unpleasant attitude. She puts up a grand façade that fools all comers, but deep inside she is afraid she just doesn't measure up. She's twenty-nine years old and already in her declining years as a model; it is her hope to be able to squeeze a few extra years into her career, to build up the nest egg on which she hopes to retire."

"I guess that's understandable, when you put it that way," Leslie mused. "What I'd like to know is how we're going to give her her fantasy—and more than that, whether she gets to keep the new and improved face after the end of the weekend."

"That's entirely up to her," Roarke said, at which point he accepted his usual champagne flute, raised it and toasted their guests. Jasmine Bellflower shifted the wriggling little dog in her arms and took a healthy swig of her frosty orange-red tropical drink, peered into the glass with wide-eyed appreciation and tipped it back once more, draining its entire contents. Leslie snickered softly, wondering if they were all going to need some sort of artificial fortification for the weekend.

‡ ‡ ‡

Jasmine Bellflower had requested a full two hours before her appointment at the main house, so Roarke and Leslie had a chance to handle a little business before her arrival. Once they'd launched the first fantasy, Leslie went over to start up the computer while Roarke made a phone call; she sat down and pressed the button, but nothing happened.

"Oh no," she mumbled and pressed it several more times, still to no avail. Swiftly she examined the machine for the obvious reasons it might not be working; she wasn't married to a computer expert for nothing. But the power strip was on and everything was connected as it should be. She turned the surge protector off and then on again, pushed the button one more time, and still got nothing.

By then Roarke had hung up and was watching her. "Is there a problem?"

"The computer isn't working," said Leslie. "I've checked the power supply and all the connections, and everything's where it should be. Something tells me this isn't going to be a simple problem. Let me call Christian and check with him."

Roarke cast the silent computer a thoughtful look. "He may have quite the challenge on his hands," he observed. "That's the same machine on which he originally uploaded the island's website, and it's been nearly seven years since then."

"Death by old age," Leslie said with a faint grin, picking up the phone receiver and punching 464. "But Christian's pretty good at resurrecting extinct species. Hi, Julianne, it's Leslie—is Christian in?" She paused, then smiled, and Roarke chuckled silently: that smile could only mean he was. Sure enough, Leslie said, "Hi, my love…are you busy?" A slight pause. "Good, because I think we have a major project for you. The computer decided to die on us, and I think this calls for your delicate touch." She giggled at something Christian said. "All right, then, how about 'light-fingered'? Anyway, come on over, would you, please? Everything's connected properly and it's getting power, but it just doesn't work, and I have this feeling we'll be dealing with Murphy's Law all weekend as it is. Oh, good…okay, see you in a little bit." She hung up. "Christian's on his way. Meanwhile, do I need to do anything to get us ready for the great plastic-surgery project?"

Roarke eyed her and inquired, "So you think we're going to those lengths, do you?"

"If not, then what?" Leslie asked.

"Watch," Roarke said and gestured behind her, towards the foyer. She turned in time to see two young native men, around college age, toting in a large mirror, about six feet high, in an etched-glass frame on a stand. Carefully they edged it into the study and set it a few feet from the steps, facing Roarke's desk, at his instructions.

"Where did we get that?" Leslie wondered, sidling over to examine it at closer range. "It's very pretty. I love the frame."

"It's very special," Roarke told her. "In fact, it will be instrumental in Miss Bellflower's fantasy. Do you see the metallic gold cloth on the tea table there? Get that, if you would, please, and drape it over the mirror. It will cover it completely. You may or may not remember having gone to the shipping dock late last fall to pick this up."

Leslie, shaking out the folded expanse of cloth, thought back. "Oh, I think I remember it now. The package four people had to shove into the back of the car. So this is what it was. Unfortunately, the only connection I can see between the mirror and the fantasy is that supermodels need mirrors to check out their looks."

"Along with some actresses," noted a new voice, and she looked around to see that Christian had entered the foyer in time to hear her last remark. He grinned when she met his gaze, and she lit up. "So you have a sick computer?" he asked.

"It might already be beyond help," Leslie said, "but if anybody can resurrect it, you can. Come on in, my love." Christian stepped into the study and greeted Roarke, who returned it, then followed Leslie across the room.

"_Herregud_, you two actually still have this thing?" Christian asked, studying it and setting his briefcase on the floor beside the chair. "I seem to remember uploading your site from this very same machine, once upon a time."

"It is indeed," Roarke confirmed. "In all honesty, I had been preparing to make room in the budget for a replacement, so don't feel as if you are obligated to restore this one to working condition."

Christian laughed and settled into the computer chair. "Well, let me see what I can do with it anyway. Oh…incidentally, I hope I won't be in the way in case you need to deal with any guests."

"Not at all," Roarke assured him. "We do have an appointment in a little while, but there should be no problem."

"You didn't bring your thermal mug," Leslie noted. "I can get you something from the kitchen if you think you'll be here awhile."

"I may," Christian said, disconnecting all the cords. "But we'll see, and I'll let you know." He looked up and smiled at her. "I don't mean to chase you away, my Rose, but we both have jobs to do."

Roarke laughed. "As it happens, her usual task at this time of the morning is to check electronic mail, which obviously she can't do."

"Oh," Christian said and laughed as well. "Forgive me, then…and I suppose that means you can linger all you like." Leslie grinned, planted a kiss on his lips and went over to her father's desk.

About half an hour later—nearly an hour early for her appointment—Jasmine Bellflower swept into the house, her long white-blonde hair a brassy explosion of wild curls, her feet still encased in stiletto heels. She wore a mini-skirted sundress and carried her dog. "Well, well," she said, glancing around. "Very nice, Mr. Roarke. So, tell me, how're you going to handle this? Is it just a matter of me writing down what I want, and you waving a magic wand _á la_ Harry Potter and saying 'hocus pocus'? Or maybe that should be 'abracadabra'." She put the dog on the floor and settled into one of the leather chairs while Leslie stared at her and Roarke watched with a vaguely pleasant expression, as if he were regarding a somewhat amusing child. "Or maybe I drink a potion, or pop a pill. I mean, for crud's sake, that wouldn't surprise me. Pills are the Great American Panacea. There's a flippin' pill for every ailment under the sun." She settled back and crossed one leg over the other, tugging absently at her tiny skirt. "No, hold it, I know…you borrowed some pixie dust from Tinkerbell."

Roarke smiled, while Leslie's expression grew chilly. "Nothing quite so obvious, Miss Bellflower," said Roarke. "All you need is a mirror."

"That I've got," Jasmine said, snorting. "I have loads of them. If that's all I needed, I could've stayed home." She tipped her head back and recited snidely at the ceiling, "Mirror, mirror on the wall…make me the gorgeous-est of 'em all."

"You're facing in the wrong direction," Leslie told her. Unbeknownst to her, Christian looked up and stared at her in perplexity.

"Huh?" said Jasmine.

"Not only that," Roarke said with a glance at his daughter, "you've phrased your request in the wrong way, and in too broad a fashion. Why don't you come over here, Miss Bellflower, and I'll explain." He arose and approached the mirror; Jasmine followed him and Leslie started to join them, only to nearly trip over the dog. Christian gasped at her stumble and half arose, and Roarke and Jasmine turned to see what was going on.

"I'm okay," Leslie assured her husband and turned to Jasmine. "What kind of dog is this supposed to be?" The animal was smaller than a Chihuahua.

"Oh," said Jasmine, "he's a toy poodle. Poor little thing, he was the runt of the litter."

Leslie stared down at the tiny dog, which peered up at her, its fluffy bud of a tail standing at attention. Then the little thing yapped at her, in such high pitch that it sounded like a puppy. "Is he housebroken?" she finally asked dubiously.

"He's two years old," Jasmine said, making her mouth fall open with disbelief. "Of course he's housebroken. Can we please get on with my fantasy?"

Leslie shrugged and stepped carefully over the dog; Christian resumed his chair, grinning to himself and shaking his head. His movement caught the animal's attention and it trotted over to sniff at the briefcase; for the moment Christian, engrossed again in his repair project, didn't notice it.

"Before we begin, Miss Bellflower," Roarke said, "perhaps you might explain your fantasy to us in just a little more depth."

"What more is there?" Jasmine asked incredulously. "I want to be prettier. How much explanation does that need?"

Leslie cleared her throat slightly. "The point is," she said, "you're already pretty, or else you wouldn't be a supermodel. What could possibly be wrong with your looks that you want to make them even better?"

Jasmine nodded comprehension. "Oh, I get it. Well, I'm about to tell you a secret, and you'd better keep this under your collective hat, or I promise I'll sue you for this entire island and everything on it." Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "What you see here is manufactured," Jasmine went on, catching their attention again. "I had a little bit of surgery here and there…tummy tucks, cellulite removal, a face lift, and breast enhancements. I have a gifted makeup artist…and this hair, well…" She turned bright red, gave them an apprehensive look, then sighed and wrapped both fists around generous hanks of the abundant curls before yanking with some force. The entire thing came completely off her head, revealing a mashed-looking, dead-straight mop of plain brown hair. It was cut short and stuffed under some sort of net to keep it in place beneath the wig. "My hair is the biggest bane of my existence. It's straighter than a ruler and more limp than wet pasta. And the color…I mean, look at it…a mouse's fur has better color than this stuff. I've hated it all my life, and I want lots and lots of curls, like in this wig."

Leslie stared at her; she and Roarke were both still startled by the unexpected removal of the wig. "What's the matter with straight hair? I've had straight hair all my life too, and I'm perfectly happy with it."

Jasmine reached out and gathered some of Leslie's hair in her hand, sliding it through her fingers. "But yours is gorgeous," she said. "The color's nice, and it's smooth and silky, just perfect. Mine's broom straw. It's dry and brittle, never holds a curl, and it has no color at all. I started shaving my head when I was ten and wearing wigs. My mother wigged out…ha ha, get it, 'wigged out'?" She brayed with laughter; Roarke smiled, solely to be polite, and Leslie looked over at Christian, who rolled his eyes and shook his head, making her snicker softly. "But I wouldn't let her argue with me," Jasmine went on, "and she finally learned to live with it. And I always chose wigs with loads of curls, like this one." She brandished the white-blonde wig. "I change colors every so often, but it's always curly like this. People think I get dye jobs occasionally. There are three people on the planet who know this: me, my mother, and my makeup artist. You two are numbers four and five. Oh, and I guess your handyman over there is the sixth now. Hey, you," she barked across the room at Christian, "you better keep the secret, because you can't afford to have me sue you."

Christian stilled completely, then stood up, allowing Jasmine to really see him for the first time. She recognized him, and her blush vanished with cartoon-like speed, eliciting another private smirk from Leslie. "Oh, my God," Jasmine muttered.

"I might be inclined to keep your secret," Christian said, "if you were a little nicer about asking me to do so." He smiled frostily.

Jasmine shifted her weight nervously and offered a hopeful smile. "My apologies, Prince Christian," she mumbled, her face flooding with color again. "Please, I beg you, don't tell anyone about my wig…I'd just die of mortification."

Christian regarded her thoughtfully. "Very well," he said after a minute or so, sounding unmistakably royal, and smiled again, somewhat less coolly, before resuming his seat and warming the smile for Roarke and Leslie. "Please excuse me," he said apologetically.

"Of course, Christian," Roarke said and smiled back. "Miss Bellflower, is it at all possible for us to see you in your, uh, natural state? Without makeup and the wig?"

"Not only that," Leslie said, "but do you have just ordinary clothes? A T-shirt and shorts, for example, and some flip-flops or sandals? It'd be a little easier for us to see what else you think needs to be improved on."

"Oh, well…" Jasmine shrugged and tugged at her skirt again, a bit self-consciously. "I can't exactly change my clothes in here, but maybe this'll help." She pulled off the heels and immediately lost two inches in height. "Is that any better?"

"_Du värdelösa minidjur, ta dej bortifrån mej,"_ Christian suddenly ordered from the other side of the room, and all three turned to stare at him. Jasmine's toy poodle had wrapped itself around his calf and was clearly preparing to do something very embarrassing.

Jasmine's eyes popped. "Sweetheart, come here," she called coaxingly.

Already annoyed, Christian gawked at her with rising outrage; Leslie stiffened with fury and glared. _"What_ did you call him?" she demanded in a low, dark, very dangerous tone. At the same moment the dog whimpered and Christian, looking down, loosed a vicious-sounding _jordisk_ curse before bodily plucking it off his leg.

Jasmine said impatiently, "I called him Sweetheart, of course. It's his name, for heaven's sake." She seemed suddenly to fully register Leslie's murderous glare and sighed. "It's my _dog's_ name." Leslie's rage slid into bewilderment and then exasperation.

Christian arose and carried the energetically wriggling dog over to them, one-handed and by the scruff of its neck, holding it away from him as if it were contagious. "Do me a favor and keep it over here where it won't bother me," he said ominously. "I've already had to prevent it eating three memory boards out of my briefcase. If the dog doesn't stay at your side, I will most certainly reveal the secret of your hair, lawsuit or no."

Jasmine's mouth dropped open. "You wouldn't dare!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Sweetheart goes everywhere I go. He's too little to fend for himself, and he needs me. He was the runt of the litter, you know…"

Roarke cleared his throat and snared everyone's attention. "Forgive me," he said with a smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes, "but perhaps other arrangements can be made for the dog while you are here, Miss Bellflower. In the meantime, Christian, just put it down over here, and perhaps it will stay by its owner's side."

"Can you guarantee that, Mr. Roarke?" Christian asked dubiously, but put the dog on the floor anyway. "I'm sorry, but that was just going too far…"

"It's okay, my love," said Leslie, who had been trying desperately not to laugh. "I'll try to catch it if it runs off again." He smiled at her, fleetingly, then sighed and retreated to the computer again. Leslie turned back to the model and shrugged. "Well, I guess if that's the best you can do, we'll just have to work with it."

"Apparently so," Roarke said. "Perhaps you could tell us what else you would like to improve, Miss Bellflower."

"Obviously I'd like to be taller," she said, peering at her feet which the dog was now sniffing, "and geez, I never noticed how my knees turn in toward each other like that. Ugh! And look at my skin, all pasty white…I haven't had a chance to get any sun so far. And you know, I could always change my eye color…" Roarke stared at her; Leslie peered curiously at Jasmine's eyes. Unnoticed, the dog scampered off again.

"Anything else?" Leslie prodded, earning a slightly annoyed look from Roarke.

"Anything and everything," Jasmine groaned. "Might as well experiment."

Roarke nodded. "Very well. In that case, this mirror—"

"_Ge det till mej!"_ shouted Christian. Leslie and Jasmine both whirled around in time to see him leap to his feet and chase the fleeing dog out the open French shutters. Jasmine turned red again and bit her lip.

"I'm really getting on Prince Christian's bad side, aren't I," she mumbled, abashed.

Leslie smiled faintly. "You didn't happen to bring a leash for…Sweetheart, did you?"

"It's probably in one of my suitcases. I was just so crazy to get my fantasy started, I was too lazy to go digging around for it. I promise, I'll get it once it's going." She gave Roarke a pleading look, but before he could say anything Christian came back in, again carrying the squirming dog by the scruff of its neck. He looked furious.

"Didn't you say you were going to try to catch it?" he demanded of Leslie.

"If you'll kindly recall, _sweetheart,"_ she said a bit acidly, "I was doing my job, as you suggested I do an hour or so ago." With that she looked at Roarke. "Should I take the cover off the mirror, Father?"

"If you would, please," Roarke agreed, casting Christian a quelling glance that made the younger man blink. While he stood there still dangling the dog from one hand, Leslie stepped around Jasmine to the mirror and tossed back the golden-silk shroud, revealing the mirror in its etched-glass frame. Jasmine stared at it.

"Nice," she said. "So what do I do with it, besides contemplate what a shipwreck I look like?"

"It will change your appearance in any way you desire," Roarke said simply.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- March 29, 2003

Jasmine stared at him, then at Leslie, and laughed out loud. "Are you serious? I'd've believed the pixie-dust thing first. I just look in that mirror and I look different?"

"Forgive me," Christian said with exaggerated patience, thus giving away the fact that he had none left at all. "But what, precisely, am I supposed to do with this?" He hefted the dog higher into the air; it squirmed madly and began yapping.

Jasmine snarled, "How about you put him down?"

"Very well," Christian said, his lower jaw shifting once or twice with anger. He strode over to them with the dog yipping at quarter-second intervals. "Good Lord, woman, what possessed you to take in something this small without a cage and a little wheel to run on? You'll probably have to have its stomach pumped, since it succeeded in swallowing a computer chip a moment ago." He plunked the dog onto the floor in front of the mirror and said disgustedly, "Truly, I wish this dog were a nice, sleepy basset hound."

And the very next second, that's what they all saw lying on the floor in front of the mirror. The hound gave a huge, long yawn punctuated by a peculiar little whistle from its throat, its tongue curling out, and then dropped its head onto its paws and gazed drowsily across the floor. Jasmine let out a little scream that made Roarke flinch slightly; Christian froze in his half-bent position and gawked; and Leslie blinked in surprise, then covered her grin with one hand.

Roarke, looking composed but for the glint of amusement in his dark eyes, said smoothly to Jasmine, "That is how the mirror works, Miss Bellflower—thank you, Christian, for your kind demonstration. Simply state your desire in the form of a wish—that a certain attribute looks a different way, or that it were something else entirely—and it will happen immediately. Why don't you try it now." He gestured at the mirror.

Jasmine, still too stunned to think properly, nodded and peered uncertainly into the mirror, then brightened. "I wish my hair were long, thick, golden blonde, and _curly."_ The lifeless brown hair on her head promptly began to lengthen, lighten and curl, reminding Leslie of a doll she'd once had whose hair could be made longer or shorter by turning a knob in its back. Christian carefully stepped back about eight paces, stopping only when he bumped into one of the chairs in front of Roarke's desk.

"Very good, Miss Bellflower," Roarke said with a smile.

Jasmine turned to him with shining eyes. "This is fantastic…fabulous! You think I could buy this mirror off you and take it home with me? I love it!"

Roarke smiled apologetically. "My apologies, but the mirror is not mine to sell. I have it on…shall we say, permanent loan." His smile grew a touch mysterious.

"Well…then, how do I keep using it?" Jasmine persisted.

"Make any and all changes you wish," Roarke invited, "and then try them out for a time. Get used to them and decide which ones you think you can live with. If you wish to effect more changes, simply come back here at any time and do so. You will have this power until six tomorrow evening—at which time your fantasy will end, and whatever changes are in effect at that moment will become permanent."

"Great! Terrific! Stupendous!" Jasmine giggled happily and flung her arms around a surprised Roarke. "This is gonna be so great…by the time I'm done, nobody'll know it was the old Jasmine, and my career'll be assured!" The hound at her feet yawned again, and the odd little whistle it emitted caught her attention. "Oh, yeah. Uh, Prince, if you don't mind, I'd like my old dog back."

Christian gave her a hunted look. "Don't you think it might be…more convenient, perhaps, to leave it as is for the weekend?"

"Only for you," said Jasmine, eyeing him. "And you can reveal the secret of my hair all you like, because this is one change I'm not tinkering with—so you can't blackmail me with that anymore. Give me back my dog."

Leslie interjected, "Father, can't she do it herself?"

"Unfortunately, no," Roarke said with an apologetic smile at Christian. "The one who makes the change is the only one who can alter it, or return it to its original state."

Christian closed his eyes. _"Må sanktarna hålla plass till mej._ Very well…" This last came out grudgingly, accompanied by a long-suffering sigh. "How close must I stand to the mirror for this to work?"

"You should be able to see both yourself and the object of your wish in the mirror," Roarke told him.

Christian still hesitated. "Can't we at least wait until she finds that thing's leash?"

"_Now,"_ Jasmine blasted the word out through her teeth.

Christian shot her a glare that spoke of exhausted patience again, and without breaking said glare, he walked up to the mirror till the tips of his shoes grazed the hound's side. But he waited till he'd succeeded in staring her down before finally looking into the mirror, ascertaining that he could see both himself and the dozing basset hound in the glass, and making a disgruntled noise low in his throat before muttering with great reluctance, "I wish this dog were itself again." The moment the last word passed his lips, he closed his eyes and set his jaw, as if bracing himself; sure enough, the dog, restored to its toy-poodle status, began yapping excitedly and reared back, bracing its front paws on Christian's leg. He let out a startled exclamation in _jordiska_ and danced aside, then shot Jasmine another glare. "Now that you have your…dog back, kindly remove it from my presence!"

"Whatever you say, Prince," Jasmine agreed with a shrug. "Here, Sweetheart, come to Mommy…good boy!" With a groan Christian stalked past her and went back to the computer, hunching down in the chair as if trying to hide behind the machine.

Leslie snickered softly and turned to Jasmine. "As Father said, you can make all the changes you want, any time you want, till six tomorrow. So have fun."

"I intend to," Jasmine said, "starting right this minute—as long as it's okay with you, Mr. Roarke. I mean, I don't want to distract you with my morphing acts."

"They won't bother me at all," Roarke assured her smilingly. "As a matter of fact, I must be away from the house for the rest of the morning, but Leslie will be here if you have any questions. Please excuse me, everyone." Leslie and Jasmine both nodded, and he left the house while Jasmine peered at herself in the mirror, cradling her dog and happily fluffing her new hair.

"I'm going to find Sweetheart's leash, I guess," she said to Leslie, "and then I'm coming back and giving this mirror a real workout. This is just so cool!" She skipped out the door, and Leslie grinned after her, shaking her head and settling behind Roarke's desk in preparation to pay some business bills.

A moment later she heard footsteps crossing the floor, but kept her attention on the checkbook; only when a hand settled on her shoulder did she look up at Christian. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, my Rose," he said softly. "I didn't mean to snap at you…I was frustrated with that stupid animal. I can't believe she calls that thing a dog."

Leslie had to laugh. Standing up, she nestled against him and felt his arms close around her. "That's definitely the smallest dog I've ever seen. I can believe it was the runt of the litter; what I can't believe is that it lived."

Christian burst out laughing. "I'll agree with that!"

Leslie tipped back and peered up at him. "Did that dog actually eat a computer chip?"

"Yes," Christian muttered, sobering and shaking his head disgustedly. "Between its appetite for electronics and its inexplicable lust for my leg, I was ready to deal out a dose or two of death. Hmm…I wonder how much prison time I'd get on this island for strangling a dog, especially one I need a microscope to see. Is jail time adjusted for size? Would I get six months for strangling a Great Dane, say, and three months for a collie, and one month for a shih-tzu? Based on that, I should serve only about six hours for doing away with that creature. And you know, that computer chip was worth at least a hundred dollars. Do you suppose you could add it to her bill for her stay this weekend?"

Leslie giggled helplessly. "I could run it by Father. Better yet, I could sneak it in and call it 'incidentals'. For someone who probably blows five grand a year on wigs, it'd be nothing. To tell you the truth, I'd be inclined to do some bodily harm to both the dog and the owner. I thought she was calling you 'sweetheart' there."

Christian grinned. "I saw that look on your face! I thought so too, for a moment."

"But it's the dog that really took liberties," Leslie remarked to him with a mischievous look. "Forward little monster. Nobody gets to make love to you except me." Christian tipped back with loud, delighted laughter, and she joined in. Once they'd recovered, she added, "Oh, I was wondering…what'd you say to it the first time you yelled at it?"

"Oh, that. I said, 'You useless mini-beast, get away from me'," Christian said. "Truly, what do you do with a dog that size? I've seen Christmas ornaments that were bigger."

"No idea," said Leslie, shrugging. "I think it's an affectation, actually. My sister Kelly had a stuffed beagle that would have smothered that little runt if it fell on it."

They snickered, then looked at each other, and Christian suddenly asked, "Do we really have nothing better to do than make fun of a microdog?"

"Sure we do," Leslie said with a little smile. "This, for one thing." She kissed him, and he promptly responded. After more than two years of marriage, they still had the ability to drag each other under the same spell, and it didn't take much for them to get lost in it. Thus they were only vaguely aware of two female voices in the foyer.

Then one—a familiar one—laughed and remarked, "Well, I shouldn't be surprised that they're kissing again. Every time I see them they're kissing each other."

Christian and Leslie split apart, and he remarked with mock disgruntlement, "And every time I kiss my wife, you walk in the door. What are you doing here, Anna-Kristina?"

"I'm still looking for a job, of course," she said, glancing at Jasmine Bellflower, who held Sweetheart in her arms. "Jasmine was just telling me that perhaps I could be a model, as she is. She says I have the face and the form for it."

Christian and Leslie looked at each other. "I hate to tell you this," Leslie said with a grin, "but there aren't any jobs for models on the island…at least not right now."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Jasmine said with an exasperated look, "couldn't you and Mr. Roarke conjure up something for her? I hear you can do anything on this island."

"Within reason," Leslie quantified with some emphasis, reluctantly releasing Christian. "And I'm not the one who can conjure things up, anyway—that's my father's dominion rather than mine. Incidentally, did you find your dog's leash?"

Jasmine gnawed on her lip. "Well…I looked through all six of my bags, and I, uh, seem to have forgotten the leash."

Christian groaned softly. "You'll forgive me if I go back to what I was doing—but if you value that dog, Miss Bellflower, you'll not let it near me." He shot her a look of warning, then gave Leslie a last kiss on the lips and retreated to the computer.

Anna-Kristina cleared her throat. "I actually did come here for something else, Aunt Leslie," she said. "I remember that you and Mr. Roarke were still looking for a driver."

Christian sat up. "Anna-Kristina, you don't even know how to drive!"

"I could learn," she retorted. "You did! I was little when you learned, but I remember how shocked Grandfather was to find out you could drive a car. If you can learn, why can't I? For that matter, I think you should teach me."

"I don't have time to teach you," Christian said, sighing deeply. "And before you ask Leslie, neither does she. Tell me, my Rose, is there a driving school on the island?"

"No, just driver's ed for the high-school students," Leslie said. "Anna-Kristina, are you saying there aren't any secretarial jobs open?"

"I've looked everywhere," she said. "I've walked my feet off, I've had one of Mr. Roarke's employees drive me…I even went to the pineapple plantation."

"No," Christian barked immediately. "You absolutely will not work at the pineapple plantation, and I have no doubt Mateo will be in full agreement with me."

"What's wrong with the pineapple plantation?" asked Anna-Kristina blankly.

"Everything," Christian said shortly. "I really need to get back to work over here. Try talking to Leslie." He ducked his head and began tinkering inside the computer again.

Leslie grinned. "Let's put it this way, Anna-Kristina…the plantation's too dangerous for you. They have brawls over there on a regular basis. Are you really serious about the driving job? How long do you think it would take you to learn to drive?"

Anna-Kristina reddened. "I don't know," she admitted. "I know nothing about it. It was never anything I really needed to know…I never watched anyone drive."

Jasmine grinned at her. "Hey, I'd teach you how, but I've got this fantasy, you know. Listen…I just had an idea. I couldn't find Sweetheart's leash—like I said, I think I forgot to bring it. I'll give you five hundred dollars if you'll dog-sit for me this weekend."

"_Herregud!"_ blurted Anna-Kristina. "Five hundred?"

Jasmine, misreading her astonishment, shrugged. "A thousand, then. But please, I really need someone who cares about animals to watch the poor little guy. He can't really get along on his own. See, he was the runt of the litter, and he needs constant supervision. I'll even write you out a check this minute, if you'll just say yes."

Anna-Kristina looked at Leslie, who cast a sidelong glance in Christian's direction and said humorously, "Anna-Kristina, if you want to save your uncle's sanity, then you'll say yes. Who knows, it might lead to your very own pet-sitting business."

The princess considered that for a moment; and while she was thinking, Jasmine blurted desperately, "How about fifteen hundred?"

"She'll do it," Christian said from behind the computer, without looking up.

Anna-Kristina tried to drill him with a glare, but she couldn't see him because of the computer tower, and had to settle for rolling her eyes at a grinning Leslie. "Well enough, I'll watch your dog. Does he have any special needs?"

"He just needs lots of loving," said Jasmine, depositing the wriggling dog into Anna-Kristina's arms. She then dug into her purse and proceeded to start writing a check. "Who should I make this out to?"

"What?" said Anna-Kristina, blinking.

Leslie laughed. "Have you and Mateo set up that joint bank account yet?"

"Oh, yes, we did…and it's the first place I got to officially use my married name," the princess replied proudly. "But I don't understand what she meant."

"She has to write the check out to a specific person," Leslie explained, "in this case you, so that you can either cash it later, or just deposit it into your bank account. Give her the name you used for the account."

"Oh, I see. Write it to Mrs. Anna-Kristina Apana," said the princess happily.

"Could you spell that?" Jasmine asked, looking surprised. Anna-Kristina nodded, rocking the still-squirming dog, and proceeded to carefully spell the name. "Gee, and I didn't have to write it out to Her Majesty, the Princess of Little Earth Island…"

Anna-Kristina giggled merrily. "Only the queen is 'Her Majesty'," she said. "I'm only 'Her Highness'. I'm going to give up my title soon anyway. I was married just a few weeks ago, and I'm very, very happy."

"Delirious," commented Christian.

Anna-Kristina muttered something in _jordiska_ in his general direction and accepted the check Jasmine held out to her. "Thank you very much, Miss Bellflower. He doesn't eat much, does he? How often should I walk him? Does he bite?"

"Not much, as often as possible, and not that I know of," Jasmine said, her attention already being diverted by the mirror standing near the steps. "I really appreciate it, Mrs. Apana. I mean, Your Highness. I mean, Princess…"

Anna-Kristina giggled. "I'll walk him now," she said, "and then I'll come back later, Aunt Leslie. I do want to apply for that driver's job." Before Leslie could say anything in protest, she left the house with the dog.

"Hopeless," Christian said through a sigh, still without looking up.

"Indubitably," replied Leslie playfully, grinning at the groan he let out. "Don't let us stop you, Miss Bellflower, we're just conducting business here."

"Oh, thanks, Leslie," Jasmine said and promptly stationed herself in front of the mirror while Leslie resumed her seat and started writing out checks. The study was quiet for a moment while Jasmine regarded her image; then she muttered, "Okay, let's try this. I wish I had dimples in my cheeks." She waited, then experimentally smiled at herself, and beamed for real when she saw the dimples. "Hm, that looks pretty good. I wish I were three inches taller…" She squealed happily when she saw herself actually grow, and clapped her hands. "Oh, I love this thing! I wish my skin were a nice, even tan all over. And I wish my teeth were the whitest teeth that ever existed. And I wish my eyes were deep violet…"

Leslie looked up, distracted beyond endurance. "You might want to start out with those changes for now and see how you like them, and how other people react. You've got all weekend to change stuff."

Jasmine peered at her in the mirror. "Yeah, you're right. Okay, that'll do for now, I suppose. Wait till the world sees me now." She giggled happily and scuttled out.

"_Thank_ you," Christian groaned emphatically from the computer. "Remind me to give you a special reward later for getting her out of here."

Leslie laughed. "Poor Christian," she teased. "Was she distracting you?"

"Almost worse than that damned thing she paid Anna-Kristina to rat-sit…rather, dog-sit," Christian grunted. With a giggle Leslie returned to her check-writing.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- March 29, 2003

About an hour and a half later Christian was alone in the study, testing the computer in vain each time he replaced a part, and beginning to wonder if the whole project really was hopeless. Roarke was still out, and Leslie had gotten a call from the casino to sign off on a very large jackpot win. Christian sat staring absently into the computer's exposed innards, weighing several parts in his hands and trying to decide what to try next, when the door opened and Anna-Kristina stalked in, carrying Jasmine Bellflower's dog. Christian looked up at the sound and grinned when he noticed that this time she wasn't cradling the animal, but holding it out in front of her with both hands and looking repulsed.

"So its true colors came out, then?" he inquired in _jordiska_.

His niece looked up, saw him there and replied in the same tongue. "Its true colors weren't all that came out, Uncle Christian. Now I know why this worthless little beast doesn't eat much food. It eats everything else instead! Rocks, sticks, dirt, flowers, feathers… anything. Of course, it doesn't stay eaten…I've watched it throw up five times already, and the first time it hadn't even eaten anything yet. I put it down and it was trotting right beside me, behaving ever so nicely…and then it just stopped and began to make this noise, a hacking sound, like this." She gagged loudly and dramatically, evoking silent chuckles in her uncle. "Truly, I thought the little thing was going to turn itself inside out. And after all that, all that came up was a lot of drool and something small and square and greenish." She missed the change in Christian's expression, from humor to horror, at her description of what had once been his computer chip. "That's when it started to eat everything within its reach. I'd pick it up to make it stop, but this thing is much too fast—I could never grab it in time to keep it from swallowing something. So of course, later it would throw up again. I can't deal with this horrible little thing anymore. I really should go to the bank and deposit the check its owner gave me, but of course I can't take this animal there with me…"

"Do me a favor," Christian broke in. "When you make the deposit, take out a hundred dollars and bring it back here to me. That greenish thing you said it threw up was a computer chip out of my briefcase, and Jasmine Bellflower owes me for it."

"You should get her to write you a separate check," Anna-Kristina said, scowling at him. "Why should it come out of what she paid me? This is the first money I've earned since Mateo and I were married, and I want him to be proud of me."

"It's the first money you've earned since the day you were born," Christian noted a little acidly. "Did you say you can't deal with that beast any longer?"

"Yes, I did. Will you watch it for me, Uncle Christian? I do have to go to the bank, and I wanted to get a nice lunch and take it to your office to share with Mateo."

"Are you planning to come back here afterward and get this little rodent? You need to remember that Miss Bellflower paid you to watch it for the full weekend, not just until you got tired of watching it throw up every fifteen minutes. Otherwise, you may as well just give her back that check. You can't back out of a job that you were paid good money for, just because it no longer suits your delicate sensibilities."

"But it's a nightmare! And look at it—it's the smallest dog I've ever seen! I'd rather have my cats! What sort of dog is this supposed to be, anyway?"

"I'm told it's a toy poodle," Christian told her. "The runt of the litter, of course."

Anna-Kristina glared at the struggling dog, then at its image in the mirror that stood beside the steps. "A toy poodle? Frankly, I wish this miserable little beast really were a toy. It would save me a great deal of grief." Agitated, she plopped the suddenly-still animal on the floor in front of the mirror and strode across the room to address Christian directly. "All right, fine, then when I've eaten lunch—with Mateo, and for as long as we both want to take—I'll come back here and take charge of that nasty little thing again. But I need a break, and I won't let you talk me out of it!" So saying, she stomped out of the room through the French shutters, without ever having seemed to notice that her canine charge had in fact been turned into a stuffed toy thanks to her unthinking little wish—spoken in _jordiska_, which just went to prove to Christian that the mirror evidently worked in any language.

"Mateo," Christian said aloud, staring with a slowly growing grin at the little plush dog, "I wish you luck with my spoiled-princess niece." He went back to the computer, laughing cheerfully. It was a good thing Mateo was so besotted over Anna-Kristina, for he had a very long way to go to get her accustomed to life as a commoner. In the meantime, she had just done Christian himself an unwitting, but very welcome, favor. If he had to keep an eye on that dog, at least now he knew it wouldn't be eating computer parts out of his briefcase. But, just to be safe, he closed the lid anyway.

Another fifteen minutes slid by while he swapped out more parts and continued trying to get the machine going; then, again, the door opened, this time admitting Julie and Rory Callaghan. Christian looked up as they came into the study and remarked, "Welcome to Grand Central Station. What's your destination?"

Julie laughed. "Hi, Christian. A lot of foot traffic in here this morning?"

"Quite a bit," Christian said. "Mr. Roarke and Leslie are both handling business matters. Is there something you need?"

"I'm just dropping off a menu," said Julie, who had just opened a small restaurant on the MacNabb property in order to accommodate years of requests and recommendations from guests at her bed-and-breakfast. "Rory, what're you doing?"

Rory, now three and a half and resembling Rogan rather more than Julie (although he did have Julie's quick, childlike grin), plucked something off the floor and displayed it at his mother. "Look, Mommy, a stuffed doggie! Can I play with it?"

"Where'd you get that?" Julie asked, puzzled.

Before Rory could reply, Leslie came in and brightened when she saw Julie and Rory. "Hi, you guys! Long time no see!"

"Hi, Leslie," Julie said, grinning. "You must be busy."

On Leslie's nod, Rory jumped out in front of her. "Look, Auntie Leslie, look! I found a stuffed doggie!" He brandished the animal at her.

"That looks familiar," Leslie said, surprised, staring at it.

"Can I play with it, Auntie Leslie, please?" Rory begged with a winning grin.

Leslie laughed. "Sure, kiddo, go right ahead. Just watch those powers." Rogan and Julie had learned the hard way that Rory had inherited not only the abilities of the Roarke clan from his father, but also the MacNabb powers from his mother. The little boy kept his parents very much on their toes, for he had begun discovering his various abilities around the time of his second birthday and tended to create all kinds of havoc without meaning to. Fortunately, by now Rory was old enough to realize that he could get himself and a lot of other people in trouble if he wasn't careful—although, of course, he still caused quite a bit of accidental chaos.

"I won't do anything bad, Auntie Leslie, I promise," Rory said.

"You'd better not…I'll be watching you," Julie warned affectionately. "Say, what's the matter with your computer?"

"It's dead, I think," Leslie said. "Christian's trying to resuscitate it."

"Without much luck so far," Christian admitted, sighing and falling back in the computer chair. "There's not much left for me to try; I may have to give up the fight."

"Want me to fix it, Uncle Prince?" asked Rory. Rogan and Julie, upon introducing their son to Christian, had told him he had once been a prince; and this had lodged so firmly in Rory's brain that ever since then, he'd called Christian "Uncle Prince". After a few fruitless attempts to get him to say "Uncle Christian", Christian had given up and laughingly accepted the nickname, saying it wasn't any sillier than the quads' "Boss Prince".

"Thanks anyway, Rory," Christian said, grinning. "I don't even know what's wrong with it, so I couldn't tell you which part to fix. Maybe another time."

"Okay, Uncle Prince," Rory said and came over to him, putting the stuffed dog on the floor, to amuse himself while Julie and Leslie were talking some business at the desk. "I bet I can make this stuffed doggie move."

Christian tensed and regarded him warily. "Are you sure you really want to do that?"

"Want to see?" Rory offered brightly, and without waiting for an answer, he leaned over the stuffed animal and clapped his hands three times right in front of its face. The toy promptly stood on all four paws and pranced around Rory in circles, making the little boy laugh delightedly and rotate in place to watch it. His antics caught the women's attention, and they too began to laugh.

"Don't make it do anything else, Rory," Julie said indulgently, "okay?"

"Please," Christian muttered fervently, keeping a sharp eye on the boy and his newly animated plaything. His utterance reached Leslie's ears, and she glanced at him, then at the stuffed animal, and suddenly added things up. Her amusement instantly died, and she met Christian's urgent gaze with a _please don't tell me_ look. He nodded, and she groaned.

Which was when Roarke came in, smiling in greeting when he noticed their visitors. "Good morning, Julie…and hello, Rory!" he said warmly.

"Hi, uncle," Julie said.

"Hi, Uncle Roarke!" Rory called out. "See my new toy?" The child had his own nicknames for everyone, they'd learned.

Roarke chuckled. "Yes, indeed I do! Where did you get it?"

"He found it in here, uncle," Julie said. "I don't know where, actually."

"It was right over there," Rory put in, pointing towards the steps. "Can I keep it, Uncle Roarke? Can I, please? I can make it walk like that, and I bet I could make it go 'ruff, ruff' too! Can I take it home with me?"

Roarke laughed. "I see no reason why not," he said, to the unnoticed horror of both Christian and Leslie. "I certainly hope you have a lot of fun with it."

"Father—" Leslie began, trying to sound casual.

"One moment, child," Roarke said and turned to Julie. "You brought a menu, then?"

Julie nodded. "I finally got in some yellowtail for this one guest who's been asking for it. You'd be amazed how hard it is to find recipes for it, but I finally did dig one up somewhere. The Internet's invaluable. Which reminds me…Christian, I need to make some changes to the B&B's website, so if you get a chance this weekend, I'd like you to come over and do that for me."

Christian nodded, distracted. "I'll try to do it tomorrow…"

"Okay then," Julie said, "I guess we're ready. Rory, what do you say to uncle?"

Rory giggled and picked up the dog, its legs still moving as if it were trotting. "Thank you, Uncle Roarke," he said obediently, and Roarke smiled.

"You're quite welcome, Rory," he said. "Oh yes…Julie, if you would, let Rogan know that Leslie will be over later for some more Ceylon cinnamon and chipotle powder. Mariki has been complaining about her lack of the former, especially."

Julie grinned. "Got it, uncle. Come on, Rory, time to go." Rory ran after her as she started up the steps, and helplessly Leslie and Christian watched them leave.

Roarke turned to her then. "I apologize, Leslie. Was there something you needed?"

"Father, I wish you hadn't let Rory take that stuffed dog with him," she said.

"Why not?" Roarke asked.

"It's Jasmine Bellflower's dog," Christian said point-blank.

Roarke stared at him, then at Leslie, then back at Christian again. "I seem to have missed something here," he said a bit ominously. "If you'd kindly explain…"

"I only just recognized it a moment ago," Leslie said. "Christian, my love, what happened? And incidentally, where's Anna-Kristina?"

Christian slouched defeatedly in his chair. "This is not my day," he muttered. "Well, you see…" He proceeded to explain everything to Roarke and Leslie. By the time he finished, Roarke looked decidedly stunned, and Leslie was fighting very hard not to laugh.

After a little while Roarke mused distractedly, "It would appear that this sequence of events was almost unavoidable…a veritable comedy of errors. Unfortunately," and here he focused sharply on Leslie, "it's up to you and Christian to correct those errors. And you had better hope that Miss Bellflower doesn't happen to meet up with Anna-Kristina somewhere and ask her about her dog."

"As I understand it, Mr. Roarke," Christian said, "Anna-Kristina is at my office having lunch with Mateo, and she suggested that it was going to take some time. At this point, I'd say the longer, the better. And just to try to tip the odds a little further in our favor, I have half a mind to call the office and tell Mateo to send her home for the afternoon, just to lessen the probability of her and that model meeting somewhere."

"Then I think you should do that now," Roarke said, gesturing at the phone. "After that, my dear Leslie, I suggest you and Christian find some way to get that dog out of young Rory's possession and back here, so that when it's safely in front of the mirror once more, Anna-Kristina can restore it to its proper state of being."

Leslie nodded while Christian was making the phone call. "Matter of fact," she said, "I think Christian and I need some lunch too, and it seems like a good idea to have it over at the B&B, just to see if we can use the time to get that thing back. But I have to tell you," she said, "I can't honestly blame either Christian or Anna-Kristina for reacting as they did. That little runt's turning out to be a nuisance all out of proportion to its size."

Roarke grinned reluctantly. "So it seems," he said, "but that doesn't change the fact that Miss Bellflower will most certainly want her dog back. And I suggest that the most attractive incentive for retrieving the animal will be its departure on Monday morning."

Leslie grinned back and agreed, "Hard to beat that for encouragement!" Christian hung up then and she turned to him. "Well, my love, how about some lunch? I was thinking we might go to Julie's place and see if she has enough yellowtail for us to try some; otherwise we could settle for the blue-plate special."

"You're thinking of lunch at a time like this?" Christian asked, astonished.

"At Julie's," Leslie repeated with some emphasis.

Christian lit with understanding. "Ah…I see," he said. "In that case, it sounds tempting. Mr. Roarke, unfortunately, I think that computer is beyond my capabilities; I've tried nearly everything to get it to work, but no luck. I have a couple of ideas, but if they don't work either, it seems you'll have to get a new machine. Of course, I'll be happy to program it for you, without charge."

Roarke smiled. "That seems unfair, Christian," he said. "You've spent your entire morning here trying to coax it back to life, and that shouldn't go uncompensated. Atop that, I think you deserve something simply for tolerating Miss Bellflower's dog most of that time." Christian and Leslie both burst out laughing, and he chuckled. "Hurry, you two, and I do hope that at least you enjoy your lunch."

‡ ‡ ‡

As for the model herself, she had forgotten all about her dog and everything else in her delirium over the changes she'd perpetrated. Back at her bungalow, she got out of her sundress, pulled on a swimsuit and a pair of shorts over that, then stepped into some flip-flops and strolled back out again. With her added height she was thinking about selling her vast array of stiletto heels, perhaps to raise money for some charity or another, and with her tan she didn't bother taking tanning lotion. She smiled just to show off her dimples, and had foregone the sunglasses she normally wore so that people could see her unusual violet eyes. Anticipating the reactions, she took a leisurely walk into town, thinking she might pick up some souvenirs while she was flaunting her new look.

"Hey, Harve, ain't that Jasmine Flowergirl, the model?" was the first comment she heard, from one of two middle-aged men with large pot bellies, hair sprouting from their ears, and foul-smelling stogies dangling from their lips.

"Naaaaah, that ain't her," Harve said, squinting at Jasmine through a cloud of noxious cigar smoke. "She's too tall and too dark. Maybe she's one'a them impressionators."

Startled and a little defensive, Jasmine turned to look directly at them. "No, I'm really me," she said firmly. "And the name's Bellflower."

"Oh, sorry. Naaaah," Harve said again. "You ain't the real thing. Like I said, you're too tall, and Jasmine Bellringer's a shrimp. And man, nobody got eyes that color."

"Specially Jasmine Blueflower," Harve's friend agreed. "Maybe that oughta be Purpleflower now." Both men honked with glee at that.

Jasmine snorted in disgust. "What's the use?" she muttered and walked away from them. "Ignorant chimneys. 'Impressionator'…really!" She stalked along the covered walk that fronted most of the businesses in the town square, peering in windows here and there, then pausing in front of the gift shop whose display window featured an array of souvenir T-shirts with assorted legends on the fronts: OFFICIAL FANTASY ISLAND SOUVENIR, _I LEFT MY HEART (AND MY MONEY) ON FANTASY ISLAND_, PROPERTY OF FANTASY ISLAND SPORTS CLUB, _MY GRANDMOTHER WENT TO FANTASY ISLAND AND ALL SHE GOT ME WAS THIS CRUMMY SHIRT!_, and I'VE BEEN TO FANTASY ISLAND AND YOU HAVEN'T. Trying to decide which one she liked, she found herself listening to a puzzled-sounding conversation nearby.

"She looks like someone famous," said a woman's voice. "I can't place her though."

"Looks a lot like that supermodel…you know, the one named after a flower," a second female voice said.

"No way," said a third female voice, which sounded as if it belonged to a teenager. "You mean Jasmine Bellflower? Not a chance. I mean…the hair's right, but she's too freaking tall, and Jasmine Bellflower's skin is way whiter than that."

"Have you ever seen purple eyes like that?" the second woman asked.

"That's nothing," snorted the teenager. "They make purple contact lenses, you know. Anybody can have purple eyes now. That's just somebody who looks kinda like her."

Jasmine could take no more. "I really am Jasmine Bellflower," she insisted, turning to face them head-on. The teenaged girl was decked out entirely in black, from her dyed dull-black hair to her black bikini top, black shorts, and black high-tops that made her look patently ridiculous. She had at least eight earrings in each ear, two small silver bolts shot through her lower lip, and a gold ring in her nose, right between the nostrils. Jasmine stared at the girl in amazement. "Your mother let you out of the house in that getup?" she asked.

The teenager had the gall to look offended. "It's a free country!"

"It's not the states, it's Fantasy Island. It might not be as free as you think," Jasmine said. "Has anybody ever tried tying a rope to that ring in your nose?"

The girl's mouth dropped open; the two women standing beside her snickered, hands over their mouths, peering sidelong at the girl. "Who do you think you are?" the girl yelled.

"Someone with a lot more fashion sense than you," Jasmine said. "Geez, this isn't worth it. I think I better go back and talk to that mirror."

"Not only a fake, but a nutcase fake too," the teenage girl said snidely. "Talking to mirrors? What're you, Snow White? 'Mirror, mirror on the wall…' "

"…'shut your mouth, you're full of gall'," Jasmine broke in sardonically and stalked away. "And by the way, it wasn't Snow White who said that, it was the wicked queen." Having gotten in the last word, she headed directly for the main house, a determined glower on her face. The eyes and the height and the tan apparently would have to go. Since no one had mentioned the dimples, she decided to keep them. At least that was a start…


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- March 29, 2003

Christian and Leslie surprised Julie greatly when they appeared at the door of her little restaurant—more of a café in atmosphere, with about five tables inside and another half-dozen outside on a flagstone patio in the front—and chose an indoor table. "So we meet again," Julie joked. "What brings you around?"

"That yellowtail you mentioned," Leslie said. "We thought we'd try some, unless you have only enough for that guest you said wanted it."

"They gave me four of them," Julie said, "but this guy's a big eater. Besides, Leslie, I thought swordfish was your thing, and I happen to have that too."

"Oh, well, in that case…" Leslie said cheerfully, and they all laughed. Julie turned to Christian. "Do you need a menu, or are you having what Leslie's having?"

"I think I'll have swordfish as well," Christian said, "and whatever comes with it. So…uh, tell me, Julie, how is Rory enjoying his new toy?"

"It's been keeping him really happy," Julie said with a grin. "He thinks it's fantastic. Now he's got it not only barking, but eating. How he did that, I don't know. The gross part is, it eats anything he wants it to. He had it nipping up all the dust bunnies under his bed, and I think he's been trying to feed it some of his plastic dinosaurs. Anyway, he's practically obsessed with it. Well, let me go get started real quick." She bustled off to the kitchen, leaving the Enstads staring at each other across their table.

"Something tells me," Leslie said, reaching for his hand, "that if and when we can tear that animal away from Rory, and Anna-Kristina brings it back to life with the mirror, she's going to have to get it outside post-haste, because otherwise Father's Persian carpet will be beyond all redemption."

Christian quirked a wry half-smile. "I don't even want to be there when it happens." They grinned ruefully at each other; then he added, "Of course, at the moment that's entirely theoretical. The big task is to get Rory to part with the microdog in the first place."

"And from what Julie says, that's going to be the next best thing to impossible," Leslie mumbled, frowning. She suddenly looked up at him. "Julie had been talking about having a big family, but I can see why they haven't tried again. Rory's quite a handful, especially with powers from both parents."

Christian considered that. "I can understand his having the powers your father does, what with Rogan and Rory being of his clan. But how does Julie play into it?"

Leslie grinned and explained, "She told me this when I was sixteen. Some ancestor of hers caught a bunch of leprechauns with a pot of gold, and they offered the guy a wish, which was that he and all his descendants be endowed with the same magic powers that leprechauns have. They gave him a really hard time about it, but in the end he got his way, and that's where the magical MacNabbs got their start. But they threw in this little twist. If a MacNabb becomes a parent after age 40, the child doesn't inherit the powers. Julie told me it's because the magical abilities were programmed into a gene, which evidently ceases to act after the fortieth birthday. Julie's older sister was born with the powers, but her parents had Julie after they were 40, so Julie doesn't have them. However—Julie was capable of passing them down to her own kids, and Rory just squeaked by because he was born a few months before she turned 40. So he has not only the Roarke powers, but the MacNabb ones as well. Which undoubtedly makes him formidable."

Christian was staring at her with very wide eyes. _"Herregud_, and I thought the Liljefors powers were difficult to deal with." His eyes clouded with some memory and he looked down, tightening his grip on her hands. "I hadn't had reason to remember this in a long time. I think it was a Liljefors girl…"

"What?" Leslie asked.

"I was eighteen and had never been in love, had never really been attracted enough to a girl to experiment much beyond kissing," Christian said slowly. "For a short time we had a young and very pretty atrium keeper, perhaps two or three years older than I. Carl Johan and I had visited our grandfather's grave, and I was feeling guilt-stricken because I had so few memories of Grandfather. She caught me in the atrium trying to come to terms with those emotions, and she must have touched me somehow, with her powers. I wanted her more than anything else I'd ever known till that moment. If it weren't for her, my Leslie Rose, I might not even have fallen in love with you. She taught me…she taught me what you might call the mechanics of loving a woman. She even seemed to open the door to my soul, which quite stunned me. But she wasn't able to touch my heart—I still didn't fall in love. Yet I think she broke down something in me."

"I thought you said Ingela Vikslund was your first," Leslie said quizzically.

"She was," said Christian. "In the course of her teaching me, I pleaded with her again and again to let me make love to her, and she refused me every time. She finally told me I needed to learn to love with my heart, as well as with my body. At 18 I didn't fully understand her meaning, but it made me realize I wasn't any more in love with her than anyone else I had ever known, or ever did know, until you came into my life." His eyes warmed as he met her gaze. "She showed me what a woman needs for the experience of lovemaking to be as wonderful for her as for me. I never forgot what she taught me, but only with you have I ever been able to make full use of that knowledge." He grinned. "Having said that, I'm beginning to want to put it to use again."

Leslie laughed softly. "A little restraint, my love…although to be honest, I feel the same way right about now. So you think she was one of Frida's clan?"

"I suspect so," Christian said, "and when I stopped seeing her she left amid rumors to that effect. Anna-Laura seemed to have heard that her boyfriend had taken her back, but I think it was those rumors. We always had an annoyingly gossipy serving staff. In any case, I know she was on the rebound after a breakup with the boyfriend, and I simply happened to be in the right place at the right moment. She must have lost some control over her powers…I have a feeling it was the only way she could have breached my defenses. I can't remember her name any longer, but since falling in love with you—and especially since our marriage—I've been quietly grateful to her for those lessons, and for denying me that last step. For when I took that step with you, it was the most wonderful thing I had ever known in all my life, and it remains so to this day."

"Then I'm grateful to her as well," Leslie said softly, her voice a little thick. "With Teppo it was sweet, but with you it's been…" She shook her head and finally said, "It's been more than I ever dreamed of."

They were still staring at each other, with small wistful smiles and a hint of tears in Leslie's eyes, when Julie came out with two plates. "Hey, you two, before you burn down my brand-new café, have a little lunch," she kidded.

The spell broken, Christian and Leslie laughed a little shakily, released each other's hands and sat back a bit to allow Julie to place their plates before them. "Thank you, Julie, this looks delicious," Christian said.

"Smells fabulous too," Leslie agreed. "Thanks."

They ate at some leisure, turning their minds to the problem of Rory and his new toy. After a while Leslie had a thought and looked at Christian. "I wonder if Rogan knows about Rory's little obsession. If I have my cousin pegged right, he's probably been shut up in that greenhouse all day and quite likely doesn't have a clue."

Christian chuckled. "That would certainly sound like Rogan. Didn't Mr. Roarke say he was going to send you over here to pick up some spices anyway?"

Leslie blinked and sat up. "Come to think of it, you're right—he did. In that case, when we've finished here, let's pop into the greenhouse for a bit."

A little less than half an hour later, after settling the bill with Julie, the Enstads strolled hand in hand for Rogan's greenhouse, venturing inside and looking at each other in surprise when they heard the unmistakable strains of pop music from the island's radio station from somewhere in the back. "Now he's playing his plants music?" Leslie asked.

Christian laughed. "If you ask me, he's just spoiling that damned temperamental amakarna." Leslie giggled and led the way between tables till they reached a door which bore a sign that said, _Unannounced Visitors Will Be Composted_. Leslie knocked on the sign and called, "Hey, cousin, we're announcing ourselves."

A moment later the door opened and Rogan peered out at them. "Ah…so it's you, then. I presume Mariki wants more spices."

"Julie forewarned you, I take it," Leslie said.

"She did," Rogan confirmed, coming out and pulling the door shut behind him. "More cinnamon, then? And hello, Christian, it's been quite a while since I saw you last."

"Very much so," Christian agreed. "How goes the plant business?"

"Normally," said Rogan, "which I suppose is a good thing. Today was a bit different. I'd been packing up a shipment of amakarna to your nieces, and then I found some sort of strange insect exploring some of the plants, which led to a battle that's lasted the entire day thus far. I had to tell Julie to keep Rory out of here because I don't want that thing infecting my son." He sighed.

"You could probably use a break in that case," Leslie remarked. "Speaking of your little devil, there's Rory now, in the yard."

"So he is," Rogan observed, glancing through the greenhouse wall where Rory was chasing his new toy around the yard. "What's that, did he find a rabbit?" Christian and Leslie exchanged a wryly amused look while Rogan poked through spice jars in milk crates till he found two of Ceylon cinnamon and four of chipotle powder. "Twenty-four dollars in all. Mariki just took the last of my cinnamon. I'd better harvest a bit more. Not only that, if you'd tell her to kindly start returning my spice jars, I'd appreciate it. If she does that I'll give you a dollar-per-jar discount."

Leslie laughed and accepted a small bag with the jars, handing him the money Roarke had given her. "I think Mariki'll go for that quick enough. These little crystal jars really caught her fancy—she said they're too pretty to throw out. Now she has about two hundred of them collecting dust in the dining-room china cabinet."

"I hope she doesn't look at them as a collection," Rogan muttered, rolling his eyes. "Those jars don't come cheap, and I want to start re-using them so I don't have to keep buying more. Thank you…and, well, I may as well come out. Julie's likely to want to feed me, and I imagine I should take my turn watching the lad. Ach, what the hell _is_ that thing?" He had stopped short and was staring at the animated stuffed dog.

Rory overheard his father's voice and veered around to run for him. "Daddy, Daddy! Come look at my new toy! I can make it run and eat and poop and drool…" Christian and Leslie both looked away to hide their welling mirth, catching each other's eyes in the process and barely refraining from exploding with laughter. "See it?"

"I see it, but I can't tell what it is," Rogan said, squinting.

"It's a toy poodle," Leslie said, trying to sound casual.

"The runt of the litter," added Christian, and Leslie snorted aloud, making him grin.

"Obviously," Rogan said, shaking his head. "Sure and that's the runtiest runt I've ever seen in all my days. Saints preserve us."

"Rory," shouted a voice, and Rory turned around.

"Over here, Mommy!" he screamed back, making Christian and Leslie flinch. Rogan saw it and grinned. Julie came around a small clump of trees situated a little distance from the greenhouse and joined their little group.

"Oh, good," she said to Rogan, "there you are. I was going to suggest you come out long enough to at least have some lunch. Rory, go catch your dog."

Rogan reared back. "Dog!" he echoed. "That wee bug scampering around out here? Ach, Julie, what possessed you? It's far too girly for my son."

Julie looked sharply at him. "He's my son too, Rogan."

"Julie, fer th' love o' St. Patrick!" Rogan burst out. "It's a _poodle!_ Ye never see men with poodles—they belong ta starlets an' models an' those empty-headed, big-busted women who are notorious rather than famous. Are ye tryin' ta turn me lad inta a girl, then?" His Irish brogue popped out when he got agitated, and the suddenness of its appearance now gave Christian and Leslie enough warning to back off a few steps.

Julie caught it too, but she ignored it. "Oh, Rogan, for crying out loud, he's not even four years old yet! He's too young to care about stereotypes—to him, a dog is a dog is a dog! Even a stuffed one! He's having fun with it, so why are you quibbling semantics?"

"Because it's embarrassin'!" Rogan shouted. Rory, having retrieved the dog, had come back to his parents and now burst into tears. "Ye really think it's harmless havin' a lad playin' with a girly dog? Give me charge o' his pets from now on, me lass, an' if ye must have a girly pet in th' house, then get a cat!" Christian and Leslie looked at each other, both very uncomfortable; then there was an unearthly gagging, and all four adults looked around just in time to see Rory's stuffed dog vomiting energetically—all over Rory. The little boy shrieked in horror and dropped the animal, which continued regurgitating. Rogan and Julie recoiled; Leslie and Christian put some more space between themselves and the Callaghans, who promptly resumed their noisy battle over Rory's choice of plaything.

Rory bawled louder, which finally cut through Rogan and Julie's argument, and Julie groaned. "Oh, geez, it must've been his crying that made this miserable thing upchuck like this. One of Delphine's boys did the same thing."

"I don't want that dog anymore," Rory wailed, sobbing. "It threw up on me!"

"I know, son," Julie said, gingerly lifting the dog by its tail. By now it was hacking up stuffing, which the breeze picked up and scattered all over the yard. Rogan cursed loudly in Irish Gaelic, and Julie glared at him. "Watch your mouth, Callaghan!"

"You can have it back," Rory cried at Leslie and Christian. "Take it back. Tell Uncle Roarke I don't want it anymore."

At his words Julie offered the Enstads the dog; they stared dubiously at it, then at each other. "You take it," Leslie said, making a face.

"Why?" Christian demanded.

"Because you're the man," she said with perfect feminine logic.

Rogan had to grin. "An' because, Christian, me mate in misery, as Julie once explained ta me, we men do all th' gross things." He eyed Rory. "Well, boyo, ye're one fine mess."

"And I hope you're happy," Julie sniped at him, "now that Rory's changed his mind and doesn't want his toy anymore. Sorry, Christian and Leslie."

"Not as sorry as we are," Christian grumbled, reluctantly taking the dog and holding it by the tail as Julie had. _"Herregud,_ would someone _please_ make it stop vomiting?"

"Stop cryin', Rory," Rogan ordered with a sigh. "If ye keep cryin', that wee beastie'll puke till it's nothin' but a pile o' fuzzy fabric. Namore plush anythin' fer th' lad, Julie, an' I want yer promise on that."

Julie eyed him. "Is that just so you can have an excuse to ply him with more of those idiotic little plastic dinosaurs next time he wants animal toys? I stepped on one the other day—I thought I'd broken my foot. If it happens again, the lot of them are history." She looked at Rory and brushed his tears away. "It's okay, son…come on, let's get you cleaned up and into some fresh clothes, okay? Uncle Prince and Auntie Leslie are taking that nasty little dog away, I promise."

Christian cleared his throat. "I think that's our cue," he said. "At least this mini-beast has stopped its…its puking." The last word came out of his mouth as if it tasted funny. "You do have odd words in English for 'vomit', I must say. Come on, my Rose…"

It wasn't till they got out of Rory's sight entirely that the stuffed dog finally ceased to expel its insides, but it was an unholy mess and hung limply in Christian's hand. "Do I really have to carry this thing all the way back to the main house?" he complained irritably.

"Well, I do have this bag," Leslie said in a prim little voice.

"Yes, and I can see how heavy it is, too," Christian retorted sarcastically, "what with all of six spice jars in it. Do you mind if we make a detour to the beach, or perhaps the teahouse, so that I can dip what's left of this rodent in the ocean or the pond and try to clean it off a little?"

"Then it'd be soaking wet," said Leslie, "and dripping all over everything in the study."

"But it'd only be water, not whatever the hell it was…puking." Christian screwed up his face. "That's truly the strangest word. And in case you didn't notice, the smell is—"

"Don't even say it," Leslie warned him, "or I'll be the next one throwing up! You really think I can't smell that thing from here?"

"Then why can't you let me wash it off?" Christian demanded. They volleyed back and forth for several more minutes in this vein, till both wearied of the whole issue and simply stalked alongside each other. They came into the study by way of the terrace, and Roarke, at the desk, looked up and watched them enter.

"Another spat?" he inquired, clearly amused. Then the smell hit him and his smile vanished instantly. "Leslie Susan!"

"Why are you blaming me?" Leslie squawked in protest.

"I told you you should have let me wash it off," Christian said with a raised eyebrow.

Leslie glared at him. "Listen here, Christian Enstad—"

"That will do," Roarke cut her off, and they both stared at him. "Leslie, go to the kitchen and get some paper towels. Christian, if you would kindly be patient for just another moment or two, you'll be able to put down the…" He hesitated, peered dubiously at the limp mess that dangled from between Christian's thumb and forefinger, and shook his head without bothering to try to finish the sentence. Christian simply quirked his mouth to one side, as if acknowledging Roarke's lack of words, and waited with strained patience.

Leslie came back a moment later and laid a small pile of paper towels on the floor in front of the mirror. "I'll call Anna-Kristina," she said and headed for the phone, while Christian went to the mirror and dropped his burden atop the paper towels.

"I wish this dog were itself again," he muttered experimentally, and Roarke and Leslie both paused to stare at him. Nothing happened, and Christian sighed heavily. "Excuse me while I scrub my hands," he said to no one in particular, and strode into the foyer and down the hallway toward the kitchen.

"I suggest you patch things up with him when he comes back," Roarke said to Leslie, not unkindly. "For you two to argue over a dog—and such a small one, at that—is simply absurd. Call Anna-Kristina, and then talk to Christian."

"I'll tell you one thing," Leslie said, making a face at the remains of their charge. "After this, there is _no way_ we're having a dog in the house. Not so much as a snowball's chance." Roarke shot her a look, and she sighed and picked up the phone.

‡ ‡ ‡

While all this had been going on, Jasmine Bellflower had returned to the main house, where only Roarke had been at that point, and stood in front of the mirror for almost ten minutes thinking up changes. However, in light of what had happened earlier, she decided to try one thing at a time. So her first change was to do something with her knees, which when she stood up straight seemed to turn inward toward each other. With that change made, she thanked Roarke and left the house, intending to show off those knees at the pool. Unfortunately, by the time she got there her legs were both aching. It was a relief to sit down for a couple of minutes and take a break.

She could hear the mutterings of people nearby who recognized her; she'd reversed most of the previous changes, leaving only the dimples. She still wanted to change the color of her eyes; as far as she was concerned, gray just didn't cut it. But it was hard to decide on the new color, and she found herself contemplating this while heading to the bar to get a drink. Maybe one of those electric-blue concoctions she'd seen someone pass her with. In fact, that might be a good eye color too…

"You okay, Miss Bellflower?" someone asked.

Jasmine turned in surprise and stared. "Yeah, fine, why?"

"You're limping," the guest told her. "Hope you didn't hurt yourself."

"I am?" She looked down at her legs; they still ached, but she hadn't been paying attention to them. "Oh, well…I guess I didn't realize. Thanks." The guest gave her an odd look but left her alone, and she made her way to the bar and ordered the electric-blue drink she had seen before. On her way back to her chair, ten persons commented on her limp, which she finally, reluctantly, connected with the change in her knees. _Terrific,_ she thought with a quiet groan. _Now I'll have to limp all the way back to Roarke's office and fix that change too. I'm beginning to think this is a trend…but I'll be damned if I'm giving up. There has to be _some_ change I can make that won't cause unexpected side effects!_

She took her time about sipping her drink, and when a waiter offered her a bowl of pretzels, she accepted in lieu of lunch, flashing him a bright grin in order to show off her dimples. He blinked at her, grinned back and remarked, "Wow, lady, your dentist did some gorgeous work there." Leaving her with that cryptic comment, he walked off, and she stared after him for a minute before remembering the way she had whitened her teeth. Maybe they were too white. That seemed absurd: how could teeth be too white, especially in her profession? Jasmine shrugged it off and sat munching on pretzels, taking healthy drafts of her drink to wash them down, and occasionally signing autographs.

Just about two or so, she decided her knees might withstand the return to the main house, and she arose, trying to walk as normally as possible no matter how much it hurt. In spite of that, she saw people peering at her curiously on her way out of the pool area, and it was a relief to get onto the trail going back to the main house and let herself limp all she liked to minimize the discomfort in her legs. Despite her best efforts, it took her twice as long to get to Roarke's study as it had to reach the pool earlier.

Inside, she found Roarke, Leslie and the former prince of Lilla Jordsö all behind the desk, looking at a catalog. The air was redolent of pine. "Don't let me bother you," she said with a self-deprecating smile when they all looked up at her. "Just making some more minor alterations. Wow, it smells good in here. Not very tropical, but nice."

For some reason her hosts and the prince looked at one another; then Roarke smiled, looking quite at ease. "We thought a slight change of pace might be nice," he said.

Jasmine nodded. "I see. It's neat. Reminds me of home, sort of. Well, don't mind me, like I said. I'll be out of your way in a few." They all nodded, then began intensely studying the catalog while she went to the mirror, reversed the change in her knees and sighed with relief to feel the ache immediately subside. Jasmine then bared her teeth at herself and peered minutely at them, wondering curiously what was wrong with them. She'd have to brush them, she supposed; they were stained slightly bluish from that drink she'd had at the pool. To heck with that waiter, she decided and stuck out her tongue at herself, startled to notice that it had been dyed electric blue as well. With a resigned snicker, she decided aloud, "Well, as long as we're going blue here…I wish my eyes were the same color my tongue is right now."

In the mirror, at the same time the change took place, she saw Roarke, Leslie and the prince all look up again and stare at her. Finally the prince asked, "You want pink eyes?" His expression seemed spooked.

"I hope you enjoy them," Leslie said gamely, though Jasmine noticed she wasn't looking directly at her when she spoke.

Jasmine rolled her newly blue eyes. "Oh, for the love of Pete," she said, exasperated. "I had this blue tropical drink over at the pool, and it stained my tongue that color. I thought it'd be a good eye color." The prince and Leslie exchanged startled but relieved looks over Roarke's head; even Roarke's expression eased just perceptibly.

"As a matter of fact, Miss Bellflower, that's a very attractive eye color," he said with a smile. "I certainly hope it works out for you."

"Me too," Jasmine mumbled. "Okay, well, I'll be back in around an hour, I guess. Maybe sooner, depending on…on whatever. See you later." She headed out, feeling somewhat less enthusiastic than she had that morning.

Left behind in the study, Christian and Leslie both sagged physically and groaned in perfect synchrony. Roarke chuckled. "You'd better try to reach Anna-Kristina again."

Christian heaved a sigh. "Where on earth could that girl be? I'm going to call Mateo at the office and see if perhaps she told him where she was going." He picked up the phone, and at the same moment Mariki emerged into the foyer with a revolted look on her face.

"Mr. Roarke, Miss Leslie, for heaven's sake, when are you going to get rid of that bag of garbage you left in the kitchen? It stinks to kingdom come," she complained.

Roarke frowned at her. "Patience, Mariki," he said. "We will let you know when we are ready for it."

"Why don't you just let me throw it out?" the cook persisted.

"Because it's very important garbage," Leslie said in a slightly strained voice. "Believe me, if we threw it out, there would be horrible consequences."

"Mateo," Christian spoke into the phone then, "thank heavens…where is everyone?" He glanced at Mariki and offered a halfhearted wave; she bowed slightly at him in return, heaved an exaggerated sigh for Roarke's and Leslie's benefit and retreated to the kitchen. "Oh," Christian went on and sighed. "This really isn't my day. What? No, I'm still at the main house. Mr. Roarke's computer is beyond repair, and I'm going to get him a new one and program it for him and Leslie. I expect to be here the rest of the day, so when closing time comes, just go ahead and lock up." He listened to Mateo's response, then chuckled softly. "Well, at least that's going normally. Uh, listen, the real reason I called is that I've been trying to reach Anna-Kristina, and apparently she isn't at home. Do you happen to know where she might have gone?"

Roarke and Leslie, watching him, saw his expression go from weary to horrified. "No, she didn't! After what we told her? That girl will be the death of me!" He groaned aloud. "No, no, stay there, I'll take care of it. My apologies in advance in case you find yourself a widower by day's end. Thank you, Mateo." He hung up and turned to Roarke and Leslie. "That niece of mine! Mateo tells me she's gone to the pineapple plantation!"

"Oh no," Leslie exclaimed. "We told her not to…"

"Exactly so," Christian said grimly. "Now I'm going to have to get her out of there. I do apologize, Mr. Roarke. It seems everything is going wrong today."

Roarke smiled a little tiredly. "Some days are like that, Christian. Leslie, why don't you go with him, huh? Judging from what acquaintance I have with the princess, it may take both of you to get her away from the plantation."

His daughter and son-in-law both smiled reluctantly. "You're probably more right than you know, Mr. Roarke," Christian said. "Well, my Rose, are you willing to embark on a rescue operation?"

"I don't know about 'willing'," Leslie bantered, "but at least there'll be two of us." He grinned at that. "Okay, Father, we'll try to be back as soon as possible. Good luck with the computer search." Roarke chuckled again and bade them goodbye.

On the porch Leslie slipped her hand into Christian's. "I'm sorry about that stupid dog, my love," she said with a sigh. "I was pretty unreasonable about it."

Christian stopped her, turned her into his embrace and gently kissed her. "That's the third time you've apologized," he said. "You can stop now, my darling—I accepted the first two, remember?" She grinned sheepishly, and he returned it. "Now let's go get my frightfully stubborn niece out of whatever trouble she's probably getting herself into as we speak, and maybe we can finally end this canine debacle once and for all."


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- March 29, 2003

By three o'clock Jasmine could barely see. "So this is what chronic nearsightedness is like," she muttered. "And just because I wanted blue eyes? Geez, what's with that mirror? I oughta tell Roarke to ship it back where he got it—the thing's defective." She picked her way along the side of the Ring Road, hoping she would eventually stumble on some trail that would take her to the main house. She heard the sound of a jeep pulling up behind her and squinted at it, hoping she wasn't somehow in the middle of the road.

The vehicle, which appeared to Jasmine as a large red blob, stopped beside her, and a voice exclaimed, "Hey, aren't you Jasmine Bellflower? You okay? You look…say, what's wrong with your eyes?"

_The color, that's what,_ she thought, but decided she might as well play along. "I was trying out some of those colored contacts," she said, "and they're impeding my vision. If you could do me a favor and get me to the main house…"

"Wouldn't you rather see a doctor?" the voice asked. It sounded like a young man, but she couldn't actually see who it was.

"No, I need to see Mr. Roarke," she said firmly. "I mean…I need to talk to Mr. Roarke, since I can't see much of anything right now…uh, where's the seat?"

With her unseen benefactor coaching her a bit, she managed to hoist herself into the front seat of the jeep and settled back with some relief. "Can't you just take the contacts out?" the driver asked curiously.

"Uh, no…these are…special contacts," Jasmine said weakly. "Which is the reason I have to go to Mr. Roarke."

"Oh…gotcha," the driver said, sounding knowing. "Be just a couple minutes, then."

He was as good as his word and deposited Jasmine at the main house. "Watch the steps, there," he yelled after her, just as Jasmine stumbled on the bottom one.

"Thanks," she muttered, waving at him without bothering to turn her head. She heard the jeep pull away, and concentrated on getting herself into Roarke's study without colliding with anything or falling down the steps from the foyer into the office. By now everything was a multicolored blur; she could barely even make out shapes. "Mr. Roarke?"

"Hello, Miss Bellflower…are you all right?" he asked, sounding concerned.

She shifted her head to the left and thought she could see something white behind something dark brown, but she wasn't entirely certain. "Is that you?"

Just perceptibly, something moved; she heard footsteps cross the floor, and Roarke's voice asked, "Exactly what is wrong?"

"I can't see," Jasmine wailed. "I don't get it, Mr. Roarke. How come changing my eye color from gray to blue made me nearsighted?"

"Did it indeed!" Roarke exclaimed, sounding genuinely astonished. "I do apologize, Miss Bellflower. Let me put you in the correct spot so that you can change it back." She felt his hands settle on her shoulders; then he turned her around. "Move three steps to your left," he instructed, and she shuffled to one side. "There you are."

"Thank you," Jasmine groaned gratefully and squinted uselessly ahead of her. She'd just have to assume he'd positioned her properly. "I wish my eyes were their normal color again," she said a little reluctantly. She didn't feel anything, but a second later her vision was back to twenty-twenty, making her blow out a loud breath of relief.

"You can see now?" Roarke questioned in concern.

"Yes, it's okay now," Jasmine said and stared at him. "You know, Mr. Roarke, I think there's something defective about this mirror. I mean…I keep getting side effects. It wasn't so bad at first—I mean, in the beginning, people didn't believe I was really me. But then I decided to change my knees so that they didn't practically face each other, and after a while I could hardly walk for the ache in my legs and people kept asking me about my limp. And now, advanced myopia just from changing the color of my eyes."

"Perhaps," Roarke suggested kindly, "you are making changes that are too sweeping, that have an effect on your entire body rather than merely the part you wish to change."

"But how could just changing my eye color make me nearsighted?" Jasmine wanted to know. "I mean, that doesn't make any sense. I never heard of eye color being the reason somebody could hardly see."

Roarke cleared his throat slightly. "That may merely be a quirk of the mirror itself," he said. "As I explained earlier, I have it on loan from elsewhere, and its owner apparently neglected to explain some of the finer points of its operation…"

"Oh," Jasmine mumbled. "I guess I can understand that. Uh, do you think if I made a less drastic change, I might get away with it? I mean…gray's not even a color, really. It's just a lighter shade of black, to me. Maybe if I went to something like gray-green…just so I could have a little bit of color in there…" She peered at herself in the mirror again, determined not to let this thing get the better of her. "Yeah, like little colored flecks in my irises. Okay, I wish the irises of my eyes had little green and gold flecks in them." She thought she noticed something different, leaned in close and grinned. "There they are."

"That's quite wise, Miss Bellflower," Roarke said with a smile. "Gradual, more subtle changes would seem advisable. Radical ones seem to produce adverse reactions in others, not to mention the side effects. As in everything, the key is moderation. Even if others don't notice, you yourself will be aware of them, and perhaps that's enough."

"You have a point there, Mr. Roarke," Jasmine said thoughtfully, studying him in the mirror. "That's really good advice…thanks." He smiled, nodded once and retreated to the desk, and she shifted her regard to her own image. Her lightly-freckled skin caught her attention, and she suddenly brightened. She'd always hated those freckles. "I wish these freckles on my arms and my face were gone," she said aloud, and presto, they were. About to make another change, she remembered Roarke's words, thought better of it and turned from the mirror, casting him a sheepish look. "I think that's enough for now," she said with a silly grin. "See you later." On his smile and nod, she slipped quickly out.

Roarke watched her, the smile growing amused. He was really going to have to talk to Merlin about that mirror. The venerable magician had always had a habit of keeping far too many secrets. He chuckled softly and resumed poring over the computer catalog.

‡ ‡ ‡

Christian had been to the pineapple plantation so many times by now that he could probably have navigated the route there in his sleep. As he pulled into the long dirt drive that led to the offices—located in a converted barn that had been whitewashed to reflect the tropical sun—he let out a deep sigh. "This place gives me nightmares," he remarked.

Leslie grinned ruefully. "It didn't used to be this bad," she said. "When I was a teenager, Father used to send me down here occasionally to handle orders for the hotel, and he never had to think twice about it."

"Sweet paradise," Christian groaned, shooting her an alarmed look. "I can't imagine that. The whole idea terrifies me, thinking of you alone and unprotected down here. Now, where in hell has my foolish niece got off to?" He parked the car a safe distance away from the barn and killed the engine, then sat there and slowly scanned everything within their sight. No one seemed to be outside at all.

"Inside the barn, I'd expect," Leslie said thoughtfully, squinting across the open fields where tall plants swayed in waves in the light breeze. "It actually seems quiet around here right now. Come to think of it, if I have the ship schedule right, the next docking won't occur for another hour or so…" Her voice trailed off, and Christian turned to regard her curiously, waiting for her to go on.

Finally he prodded, "Is there something significant in that?"

Leslie looked up and focused on him. "I think so, yes. Every time a cargo ship arrives, it loses some of its crew, and they usually wind up here. The thing that gets me about that is that these guys always have valid passports, and they always have enough money to buy a pass from the dockmaster, although some of them spend pretty nearly every penny they earned aboard ship just to get onto the island. And believe it or not, there are long-term workers here. It's just that the kind of work they have to do isn't what you'd want to make a career out of." Christian chuckled at that, and she grinned back and continued, "So at any rate, on weekends we get two dockings a day. One's around ten and the other's usually between five and six in the evening. It's a little after four now. At this point, anyone who's leaving—voluntarily or under pressure—will be at the dock waiting for the next ship to get there, and during those times it's quiet around here. We have a little window here where we can look for Anna-Kristina without fearing for our lives."

"Aha, I see," Christian murmured, absorbing her explanation for a moment. "I guess that explains why I tend to find myself here during brawls. We make note of the times we receive calls for repairs from this place, and it seems to occur just after docking time, now that I think back."

"Because the new recruits immediately lose their tempers and start trashing things, probably," Leslie added, and they laughed ruefully.

"Seems so," Christian agreed. "Well, all right. As long as it's quiet now, let's make all possible haste so that we're safely away from here before the next docking." They got out of the car, and Leslie came around the front to join Christian, who took her hand just for good measure. Together they approached the barn and ventured inside; it was still quiet, but they saw lights on in the overseer's office in a far corner.

They had no time to do more than exchange a hopeful glance when the door opened and the overseer came out, with Anna-Kristina behind him. "Listen, princess," he was saying, "if I hire you here, the place would go up in flames. No women, period."

"But your secretary—" Anna-Kristina started to protest.

"Is my wife," the overseer broke in, "and what's more, you've seen her—she weighs three-fifty and can deck a sumo wrestler. Believe me, I know—she's had to, a couple times. She's got a younger sister just like her, and we bring her in when we have too many bad seeds that need winnowing. You're a little thing, and pretty on top of that. That wedding ring you're wearing won't mean anything to these guys. And I'll tell you something else, princess…I know who your uncle is. He's the only computer repairman I trust enough to get these damn machines working again after they get knocked around, and if I hired you, he'd refuse ever to come out here again." He and Anna-Kristina rounded the row of desks that held the plantation's computers, and at just that point they saw Christian and Leslie waiting near the doorway. "Well, speaking of your uncle…"

Anna-Kristina stared. "Uncle Christian, what are you doing here?"

"Rescuing you," Christian said. "I hope you've been listening to the overseer; he knows exactly what he's talking about. We told you not to come down here, but as usual, you simply went and did as you pleased. What on earth did you think you were going to do here, harvest pineapples?"

The overseer said apologetically, "My wife wants an assistant, Mr. Enstad. She's had an ad out in the _Chronicle_ for a week or so. It's nothing backbreaking, just running errands and filing paperwork and answering phones. But it's gotta be either a guy, or an ugly woman. If your niece got the job, well…you know…"

"I do know," Christian said.

"But I need a job!" Anna-Kristina wailed. "Mateo can't support me forever, and it wouldn't be right for me not to bring in my share!"

"You _have_ a job," Christian shot right back, "one you walked out on despite being paid good money for it! Don't you remember? You were rat-sitting!" The overseer gave him a puzzled look, and Leslie snickered, squeezing her husband's hand. "Pardon me, I meant to say 'dog-sitting'," Christian corrected himself and rolled his eyes. "Anna-Kristina, you seem to have forgotten all about that. It's all well and fine for you to look for a job, but when you have one—even a temporary one—you're expected to finish it before you start searching for another! Do you understand me?"

Anna-Kristina blinked. "Oh…you mean Sweetheart?" She made a face. "If I never see that animal again, it will be a miracle. Do I really have to—"

"Yes, you do, and you will, this very second," Christian informed her blackly. "Come on, we're leaving right now." To the overseer he said, "My apologies."

The overseer shrugged affably. "No biggie," he said. "I understand completely. Hope you find something, princess." He gave her a slightly clumsy bow and struck off for his office again, while Christian firmly took his niece's arm and pulled her along with himself and Leslie back to the car. Anna-Kristina was quiet, but she looked upset.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she burst out once Christian had gotten them back onto the Ring Road going east.

"I'm not doing anything to you!" Christian exploded in exasperation. "Nothing, that is, other than trying to remind you what your priorities are at the moment! In any case, you did something to that miserable rodent you foisted off on us, and you have to reverse the process before the owner of that pile of fluff discovers what's been happening!"

"I didn't do anything to that dog!" Anna-Kristina retorted hotly.

"Not intentionally, no," Christian conceded, "but you did it nevertheless. I've been given to understand that you're the only one who can make it right again. But let me tell you, Anna-Kristina Enstad—that is, Apana—once you do, you are taking that useless little thing home with you and keeping the sharpest possible eye on it. You won't let it out of your sight, and on your way home you will buy a leash for it and make certain that if you take it outside, it has that leash around its neck."

Leslie was watching him with amusement. "Like a noose?" she suggested playfully.

Christian, caught up short, cast her a very wry glance. "My fondest wish, my Leslie Rose," he said, and she laughed; he grinned and returned his attention to Anna-Kristina. "In any case, to summarize, you're going to do the job you were paid for. No arguments, no sneaking away, no welching out—_finis_! Now, once and for all, do you understand me?"

"_Finis?"_ Anna-Kristina asked, looking horrified.

"Yes, _finis,"_ Christian said with emphasis. He noticed Leslie's expression. "Is there something wrong, my darling?"

"What do you mean, exactly, when you say '_finis'_ that way?" she asked curiously. "I've heard you use it before, but I'm not sure what it stands for."

Christian considered it a moment, then smiled. "I think in English, the equivalent is 'period'," he said, "as in 'this discussion is over, period.' That's what an American tutor told me. And this discussion is in fact over, so not another word from you, Anna-Kristina." She slumped in her seat, and Leslie twisted around in hers to smile at her.

"Honey, I know you're discouraged, but Christian's right," she said gently. "You've got to see this job through to the bitter end. And believe me, we both know how bitter it is. We've been dealing with that dog…or what's left of it now…most of the day."

Anna-Kristina stared at her in horror. "What's left of it?"

"That's what you're going to fix," Leslie said. "You'll see when we get back to the main house. If I were you I'd hold my nose." On that cryptic comment, she turned back to face front, noting Christian's silent snickering in her peripheral and grinning to herself.

"My favorite tutor was British," Anna-Kristina said primly, out of the blue, some ten or twelve miles later when they'd reached the approximate halfway point home. "And she told me that '_finis'_ really means 'full stop', and that the Americans have it wrong."

Christian threw her a sharp glare in the mirror, and Leslie turned in her seat again to give her a long stare. "Well, thank you for the kind correction," she said acidly, twisting back around again.

"I didn't mean…" Anna-Kristina began in belated realization.

"Oh, I expect you probably did," Christian said tiredly. "I'm not in a mood to argue British versus American terms with you, and now I have no doubt that Leslie isn't either. I suggest you stop thinking about words and start thinking about that damned stupid nuisance of a dog." On that note, all conversation ceased, and the remainder of the drive home commenced in silence, though Christian reached over and tucked Leslie's hand into his. She smiled at him, and he squeezed her hand.

At the main house, Roarke looked up with noticeable relief when Christian and Leslie came in with Anna-Kristina behind them. "So you succeeded in rescuing her from the pineapple plantation," he said with gentle humor. "Leslie, why don't you go and get the bag." She made a face, but released Christian's hand and went off to the kitchen while Christian and Anna-Kristina stepped down into the study. "What, then, was the reason you went?"

Anna-Kristina regarded him sheepishly. "There was a job opening there, Mr. Roarke," she explained. "I saw it in the newspaper. The overseer refused to hire me, though. He told me I was too pretty."

Roarke nodded, clearly with full understanding. "A wise man," he said.

"More than you know," Christian said, falling into a chair. "Had he gone ahead and hired her, I might currently be under arrest for attempted murder."

"Whose?" Leslie asked, just returning with a tightly-tied garbage bag.

"What?" Christian said, sitting up.

"Whose murder—the overseer's, or Anna-Kristina's?" she queried. Christian laughed reluctantly, and she chuckled back and set the bag down in front of the mirror before turning to the bewildered princess. "Listen, young lady, and don't ask any questions till I'm finished here. If you do have any, just keep them to yourself, and then you can ask Father. But for now, listen to me. This bag contains what's left of Jasmine Bellflower's dog. You can fix it, but you have to do exactly what Father tells you." She saw Anna-Kristina open her mouth and glared, propping her hands on her hips. "I said, no questions! This is what happened." With that, she explained, with occasionally nauseating detail, what had gone on from the moment Anna-Kristina had brought the dog back from a walk till the time Christian had learned from Mateo that the princess had gone to the plantation. By the time she was finished, Anna-Kristina couldn't have asked a question if she'd wanted to.

Silence fell in the study. Anna-Kristina stared at the bag before the mirror; Roarke watched, with the slightest of smiles on his face. Christian sat relaxed in his chair, elbow on its arm and his jaw resting against his fist, his smile decidedly wider than Roarke's. And Leslie stood waiting, her expectant gaze trained on Anna-Kristina. Finally, the princess looked around at them all and mumbled, _"Herregud."_

"That just about sums it all up, I expect," Christian said, very amused.

"Do you have any questions, Anna-Kristina?" Roarke asked kindly.

"Is this real?" the princess asked him, her eyes huge. "Is she telling the truth?"

"She certainly is," Roarke said with a nod. "In wishing the dog were an actual toy, instead of merely a breed by that name, you activated the mirror's powers; and your charge did indeed become a toy. However, due to the provenance of those powers, you are the only one who can restore the animal to its proper state of existence."

Anna-Kristina looked shell-shocked. "But that can't be possible," she said, shaking her head. "It just can't."

Christian regarded her with mock sadness, shaking his head slowly. "This comes from my niece, whose father put her and her sisters on amakarna—a spice that is no more terrestrial than that mirror seems to be. If you believe in amakarna, _Kattersprinsessan_, then tell me why you don't believe in the mirror—particularly since you're now a resident of Fantasy Island."

Roarke studied his son-in-law with amusement and observed, "As a matter of fact, Christian, there are several arguments that would suggest this is the wrong viewpoint to take in regard to amakarna, which is merely of another world, versus the mirror, which seems to be outright magic. However, since we don't have the time for that, I think we had better get on with the business at hand. You need only state that you wish the dog were itself again, Anna-Kristina, and it will be so. Leslie?" He gestured at the mirror.

She shot up to her full height, alarm on her face. "Do I have to open the bag?"

"Unfortunately, yes, my child," Roarke said. "I'm sorry."

"You'd better get that pine-scented spray from Mariki, my Rose," Christian said sympathetically, smiling at her.

Leslie made a strangled noise and fled to the kitchen; Christian grinned after her, then shifted his attention to his niece and sighed. "The moment you've put that mini-demon back to rights, Anna-Kristina, for God's sake get it out of here."

"I must agree with that sentiment," Roarke said dryly.

Leslie came back with a bottle in one hand. "And don't forget the leash," she added direly. "Okay, folks, brace yourselves. Honestly, I need a third hand to hold my nose with." She set the bottle on a step, knelt beside the bag and began to untie it; just before pulling it open, she took as deep a breath as her lungs had capacity for and held it, then yanked the bag open and squeezed her eyes shut. Roarke and Christian watched warily; as soon as she opened the bag, Roarke sat back in his chair and Christian covered his nose and mouth with one hand. Anna-Kristina stared at them in bewilderment; then the smell hit her and she staggered back with a gasp, cursing volubly in _jordiska_.

Leslie instantly resumed her standing position and backpedaled at speed from the bag. "Make the wish, Anna-Kristina!" she snapped sharply.

"And stop that cursing!" Christian added. "You're worse than a drunken sailor!"

"Where do you think I learned it from?" Anna-Kristina shrilled at him before pinching her nose shut and moving to the mirror so that she could see herself and the bag in it. "I wish to high heaven this dog were itself again!"

Instantly a small, fluffy poodle leaped out of the bag and made a beeline for Christian, who let out a curse of his own before tossing Roarke a sheepish glance and then bolting out of the chair. "Anna-Kristina, get this little parasite away from me, _now!"_

Waving her hand in front of her face, Anna-Kristina gave him a look meant to slay and knelt down. "Here, Sweetheart, that's a good boy," she coaxed. To Christian's enormous relief, the dog pranced to her, and she scooped it up into her arms. "I hope you're happy, Uncle Christian…you won't be seeing me again this weekend!" With that she stalked out the door, cradling the dog and muttering to herself in her native tongue.

Leslie returned to the mirror and sprayed pine-scented air freshener liberally in its vicinity while Christian slouched in his chair and moaned softly. "Promise me, my Rose," he pleaded, "that we'll never, ever, have a dog in our house."

"I already made that decision hours ago," Leslie said with a grin. "But I'll promise, my love, if you'll answer a question for me. Where would Anna-Kristina have met a drunken sailor, if her cursing was as bad as you seem to think?"

Christian turned red—a rare thing for him—and slanted one mortified glance in Roarke's direction before admitting, "I was the sailor in question, I'm afraid. Not drunk, but certainly a sailor. It was during my military service that I learned some of the most shocking curse words that exist in _jordiska_. I had already known one, thanks to my father's frequent ranting, but I learned all the rest while I was at sea. That alone made me question whether mandatory military service was really such a good thing."

"But she was eight years old when you did your service, wasn't she?" Leslie protested.

"Yes, she was," Christian said with a raised eyebrow, and left it at that. Roarke let his gaze stray to the ceiling, and Leslie burst out laughing, playfully spritzing some air freshener in Christian's direction.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- March 30, 2003

Strolling to the pool with the intent to take a morning swim, Jasmine whistled cheerfully to herself, swinging a canvas bag containing a towel, a bottle of sunscreen and a potboiler of a novel she'd been meaning to read for months. Her latest eye-color change had produced no unwanted side effects, and some people had even commented favorably on it, giving her new confidence. This fantasy might work out after all, as long as she remembered to take it slow. Feeling confident that some of the changes—her hair, her eye color, her dimples, and even her teeth—had successfully stuck, she entered the pool area, chose a lounge and left her belongings on it, and then paused on the concrete lip of the pool, ready to slip into the water.

"Man, have they been keeping you up at the North Pole or something?" someone asked her, and she turned to stare at a muscular young man with a shock of flyaway honey-colored hair and the sort of self-assured smirk that spoke of an overabundance of ego.

She gave him a frosty look. "And what brought out that nonsense remark?"

His grin just got bigger. "You're as white as snow," he said, and then barked with glee, his laughter sounding like a series of "har, har har"s that immediately grated on her nerves. "Geddit? North Pole, white as snow? Har, har, har!"

Jasmine's usual rotten temper, subdued for the better part of the weekend due to the possibilities with the mirror, surfaced for the first time since the previous morning in Roarke's study, and she rushed him, bodily shoving him into the pool. He came up spluttering and gawking at her. "What was that for?"

"Your jokes are as wet as you are, buddy," Jasmine said snidely. "Geddit? All wet? Har, har, har!" Having delivered this comeback, she retraced her steps to the lounge and decided not to bother swimming after all. _I'm in bad form this morning, if that's the best I could do,_ she chided herself. _At least maybe now he knows better than to mess with Jasmine Bellflower._ She had taken on the name years ago, just after graduation from high school, making her mother's jaw drop. "Lori Amelia Browne," she had said, "is there nothing I've given you that you like? Now you don't even want your name!"

"Mom," Jasmine remembered protesting, "nobody's gonna remember a model named Lori Browne! They'll remember Jasmine Bellflower!"

"Outlandish," her mother had said, and they had never agreed on her assumed name; in fact, her mother still called her Lori. If it weren't for good old Mom, Jasmine often thought, she'd have forgotten she was ever Lori Browne by now. She shifted in the lounge chair, dug out the novel and determinedly began reading.

"Miss Bellflower, you really should put on sunscreen," a solicitous feminine voice told her. She looked up again and beheld a grandmotherly-looking woman with gray hair fading still further to white, dressed in a one-piece bathing suit covered with large, garishly colored flowers, a cotton terry coverup and a huge straw sun hat.

"I guess so," Jasmine said, "but I never really had a problem with…"

"Dear, you're simply as white as white can be. Where do they do all those photo shoots of you, in underground dungeons? If you don't get some sunscreen on that skin, you'll be just as red as a tomato. I hope you thought to bring some." The woman smiled, gave her a maternal pat on the arm and wandered away.

Grumbling, Jasmine put down the book, rummaged for her sunscreen and began slathering it on. While she was in the process, four more people commended her for protecting her very pale skin. Finally, Jasmine realized that the freckles she'd removed the evening before, just prior to returning to her bungalow to have some supper brought to her, had in fact given her skin at least the illusion of some color. Without them, she really did look pasty. "Should've left the damn tan and let people talk," she muttered to herself, continuing to smooth on sunscreen. She really didn't want those pesky freckles back; but when another half-dozen people made remarks about her snowy skin, she finally gave up, threw the book and the sunscreen back into her bag and left.

She encountered Roarke, Leslie and the prince on the veranda, nearly finished with breakfast. "Mr. Roarke," she said point-blank, "is it okay if I use the mirror again?"

Leslie and the prince looked at each other; Roarke was the epitome of grace. "Of course, Miss Bellflower," he said with a smile. "As I said yesterday, feel free to use it anytime you wish." Jasmine smiled gratefully back and hurried into the house, then paused in front of the mirror and assessed her skin. Come to think of it, she did look pretty pale.

"No freaking freckles," she growled at her image. "Makes me look about five years old. Nan Bobbsey had freckles. Jasmine Bellflower does not." She scowled, phrased her next wish very carefully in her head, and then said deliberately, "I wish my skin had a light tan all over." Tan in place, she nodded with satisfaction and studied herself, reaching absently up and scratching an itchy spot under her left ear. The sight of her own hand in the mirror stopped her, and she examined both hands, usually outfitted with long fake nails, but for the sake of her fantasy currently unadorned.

A slow smile crossed her face. "Hmm. Okay, then…I wish I had nice, natural, long nails, which would take nail polish without it chipping inside two hours." She giggled nervously, watching all ten fingernails grow to a respectable length and then magically acquire a coat of shiny pink polish. "Hmm, nice. What else?" The fingernails were a fairly minor change, and she wanted to try something else. Scanning her skin, she wished away a couple of moles, then decided she'd had enough. Moderation, Roarke had said. She still had lots of changes she wanted to make and there was the whole day left in front of her. With a grin, she picked up her gear and strolled out of the house, deciding to try again at the pool. With her new, less intense tan, she might escape the white-skin remarks, and she wanted to see if anyone noticed her new fingernails.

At the table, Christian, Leslie and Roarke watched her go. "Father, are you really sure you want to deal with her alone all day?" Leslie asked. "I mean…between her constant cosmetic changes and that miserable dog of hers…"

Christian reached over and put a hand over her mouth. "If you mention that creature one more time, my Rose, I'm afraid I just may have to gag you," he said with a half-smile. "I beg you, please don't. It's a new day, and that thing is my niece's problem, not yours…and, thank every saint that ever existed, not mine."

Roarke chuckled. "I have dealt with far less amenable guests in my time, my dear daughter," he said humorously. "Surely you haven't forgotten Frank Barton, or Vanessa Walgren, or Nyah…"

"You have a point there," Leslie admitted and smiled.

"And who were they?" Christian asked curiously.

She drew in a breath. "Frank Barton was a big-game hunter who decided to try his hand at stalking and killing Father when I was sixteen. The next year, Vanessa Walgren came here ostensibly for a sort of pentathlon, in which her ultimate goal was also to do Father in by challenging him to take part in the various contests and then trying to sabotage his participation in such a way as to jeopardize his life. And Nyah was a mermaid."

"Oh," said Christian and nodded. "I see. I suppose that would make Jasmine Bellflower a kitten in comparison, at least since she doesn't seem interested in committing murder against any of us…" Something sank in and he slowly looked back at Leslie, who was watching him, clearly waiting for it to hit. "Did you say a mermaid?"

Leslie looked at Roarke. "He's doing better," she remarked conversationally. "It took him thirty whole seconds this time."

Roarke nodded, a twinkle in his dark eyes, and agreed, "Yes, I do believe there's hope for him. Now, if he believes you when you explain further about Nyah…"

"_Herregud,"_ muttered Christian, and at that Roarke and Leslie laughed. "Perhaps we'd better get out of here. And yes, Leslie, you certainly will be telling me more about this mermaid. I hope you noticed I didn't say '_alleged_ mermaid'."

Leslie giggled merrily. "That alone gets you bonus points, my love. Okay, Father, if you're really sure you can spare me, I guess we're ready to go." She was accompanying Christian on his computer-shopping expedition for Roarke, because Roarke was providing a blank check for the purchase, and only he or Leslie could sign it.

"Give me a moment to give you the check," Roarke said, and arose to get it. Christian and Leslie waited at the table, having a little more fruit juice and going over what needed to be done during their coming two days off at home.

Roarke came back a moment later and handed Leslie a check, along with two passes to allow them back onto the island later. "If you can keep the total price under two thousand dollars, I'll be grateful," he said.

"That shouldn't be at all difficult, Mr. Roarke," Christian said. "In fact, I suspect we can add a few bells and whistles, with a margin that large. Do you think you'd like one of the new flat-screen monitors? They eliminate glare."

Roarke grinned at him. "At your discretion, Christian," he said.

"Come on, Christian," Leslie said indulgently, taking his hand, "before you get involved in trying to sell lots of tantalizing goodies, let's just go get the thing and figure out what to add when we get there." Christian chuckled, and they bid Roarke goodbye and left the veranda. Roarke watched them drive away, shook his head fondly and reflected to himself that it was just as well he'd deliberately made room for more money than the computer-replacement project strictly required. He was quite certain he'd never seen anyone more enthusiastic about the machines than his son-in-law. Smiling, he retreated to his study.

‡ ‡ ‡

Not long after the Enstads' departure for the computer store in the Coral Island mall, something came up in the weekend's other fantasy, requiring Roarke to be out for the bulk of the day. It was a little past five before he returned; by then Christian and Leslie had been back for several hours and Christian was in the process of programming the new computer while Leslie handled whatever came up in her father's absence. Shortly after they'd come back, a large pile of mail had landed on the desk, and Leslie had found herself quite busy with that, in between phone calls and a few questions from various guests. So Jasmine Bellflower's comings and goings had gone almost unnoticed, what with Leslie's preoccupation, Roarke's absence, and Christian's total absorption in setting up and programming the new computer. This set the stage for their guest's last return to the main house within ten minutes of Roarke's return.

"I think I've had it," Jasmine announced her arrival, making Roarke and Leslie both look up. Only Christian seemed unaware of her presence.

"You have? With what?" Leslie asked.

"This fantasy," Jasmine admitted, sighing very heavily and falling into a chair. "I never thought it'd end up like this."

"How, exactly, did it…'end up'?" queried Roarke.

"Let me start from this morning," Jasmine said. "I went to the pool to show off my new skin without the freckles, and about eight people remarked on how sheer white my skin was. One guy made a stupid joke about it, so I pushed him in the pool." Roarke and Leslie looked at each other; the comment caught Christian's attention, and he paused and looked around, settling back in the chair to listen when he recognized Jasmine. "So I came back here while you folks were at breakfast, gave my skin a little bit of tan to stop the jokes, and then grew my fingernails and went back to the pool. Every time I signed an autograph, I got remarks about talons and claws. So I came back here and got rid of the nails, and then I narrowed my nose, except then people thought I was doing the Michael Jackson thing…so I came back again, put my old nose back, and figured maybe I could make my face a little bit longer, so it wouldn't be so round and squat, y'know? But nobody recognized me, and a whole crowd of people said my forehead was so huge I should be wearing bangs. And I really, really hate bangs…no offense, Leslie." Leslie blinked in surprise; Christian smiled faintly, and Roarke chuckled soundlessly. "So I put my face back the way it was and gave myself nice full lips. The second I stepped out the door, your cook came out to change the tablecloth and practically had a fit—she thought a bee had stung me in the mouth and was afraid I was going to sue you people for everything in sight. I thought it was just her being funny and went off to the casino, and eighteen people—eighteen, for crying out loud!—had the exact same reaction. One of them was going to call an ambulance to get me to the hospital before I started having allergic reactions to this imaginary bee sting."

Again, Roarke and Leslie looked at each other; by now Christian was fighting to keep his laughter inaudible. "So you were in the hospital?" Leslie asked.

"No, I got out of there before he could make the call, and I made a beeline back here." She noticed the pained looks on Roarke and Leslie, realized what she'd said and rolled her eyes. "Oh, sorry. Puns kinda fall out of me sometimes when I'm not looking. Anyway, so I fixed my lips, and decided to try one more thing—I asked for natural color in my cheeks. And everybody I met told me I'd better learn to put sunscreen on my face along with the rest of me when I decided to try to get a tan. I guess they all thought my face looked sunburned." She groaned aloud and shook her head, clearly on the verge of tears. "Almost everything I've tried this weekend has backfired, Mr. Roarke. I wanted to be the absolute perfect model so I could lengthen my career and make sure I had something to live on after I had to retire. But it just didn't work out. This wasn't what I thought was going to happen at all."

"Some of the changes worked, didn't they?" Leslie asked.

"Yeah, a couple. The hair worked, since I just made my real hair look like my wigs, and I got away with the dimples. And I mostly got away with the teeth—till someone said yesterday that my dentist did some really nice work."

Leslie stifled a giggle and said, "Well, I have to admit, when teeth are that white, they look fake. Before that change becomes permanent, you might want to dull them down some. You still have half an hour."

"Yeah, I guess." Jasmine reluctantly got up from the chair and shuffled to the mirror, eyeing herself in it with a dejected expression. "I wish my teeth were about five shades less white than they are now." She bared her teeth at herself, frowned, then turned this rictus to Roarke and Leslie. "Do they look better?" she asked through her clenched jaws.

Leslie, who couldn't see any difference, shrugged, trying to be tactful; Roarke pulled it off a little better. "I believe they look quite natural," he said.

Jasmine let the grin drop. "That means they don't."

"Oh, let them be," Leslie suggested. "Everybody thinks models and actresses have crowns anyway. Besides, they really do look nice that way."

"Yeah?" Jasmine looked hopeful. "In that case, maybe I'll just leave 'em. So that's a grand total of three changes that I got away with."

"That's actually three more than I expected you to get away with, to tell the truth," Leslie admitted. "The hair I can understand, and even the teeth. But how'd you explain the dimples? I mean, you obviously didn't have them before."

Jasmine shrugged. "No one ever asked. I guess they assumed I had some sort of plastic surgery or something. Why would a bunch of cosmetic changes produce those kinds of reactions, anyway? I just didn't think they'd be that drastic."

"Too many changes can be overwhelming," Roarke said, "and drastic ones, such as those you were attempting to implement, equally so. In your case, the changes were both drastic and numerous, which I'm afraid resulted in overkill. And as you recall, there were a few fairly serious physical side effects as the result of several."

"Yeah…my aching legs and my nearsightedness," Jasmine agreed, then suddenly brightened. "Though when I added just a little color to my eyes, that worked out too."

"There you go," said Leslie encouragingly.

Jasmine frowned. "But you know, something crossed my mind out of nowhere this morning. I remembered telling my mother I was changing my name, and she just looked at me and asked me if there was anything she'd given me that I liked."

"I'm sorry?" Roarke said blankly.

"I look like my mother," Jasmine said. "My hair, my face, my body, everything I've got, I inherited from her. She used to say, 'Make the best of what you've got'. And that old saw used to drive me positively insane. At least, it did till I got into modeling and was actually a success at it. But I still wanted to change a bunch of stuff, and I guess when I told her I was dumping my birth name and taking on a new one, it was the last straw for her. To this day she's always gone on calling me Lori. If it weren't for her, I'd've long since forgotten my real name." She thought about it for a while. "Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I spent too much time wishing I was something else, instead of being myself."

"Perhaps, if you let a little bit of Lori Browne come out," Roarke said, "it will enhance Jasmine Bellflower. That may have been the only real change you ever needed."

Jasmine contemplated his words, then smiled faintly. "How much time do I have?"

"Ten minutes," Roarke said.

She got to her feet once more, studied herself in the mirror, and then wished away the dimples, the eye color and even the unnaturally white teeth, along with a gentle but noticeable tan. Roarke smiled a little; Leslie watched with surprise, and Christian raised an eyebrow, catching his wife's eye and smiling slightly. Jasmine turned and regarded her hosts, then said, "Okay, I'm letting Lori Browne come back out again. But I draw the line at the hair. _That_, I'm keeping!"

Roarke and Leslie burst out laughing, and Christian grinned, finally returning to his tasks at the computer. "I hope you're not too disillusioned," Leslie said.

"Naaah…I think I just needed to learn a couple things." Jasmine smiled. "Well, I'll see you folks in the morning. I think I'm just going to enjoy myself this evening." Roarke and Leslie nodded, smiled and wished her a good time, and she walked out.

"Ah," said Christian, typing something into the computer, "so she's reached an understanding with herself. Now if she'd just come to her senses about that so-called dog…" He smirked when his wife and father-in-law broke into fresh laughter.

§ § § -- March 31, 2003

Roarke and Leslie had just returned from the plane dock, and Christian was about to take Leslie home for their weekend, when Anna-Kristina emerged from a trail and ran for them. "Uncle Christian, Aunt Leslie, wait!" she cried.

Christian and Leslie turned beside their car, and Roarke paused on the walkway to the steps. "I thought we weren't going to see you for the rest of the weekend," Christian said.

"Oh, well…I think that was because of that impossible little dog," Anna-Kristina said with a sheepish smile. "That thing was simply infuriating. I've never seen a dog so small, and I've never seen any dog eat everything _except_ dog food. Or even people food."

"Maybe that's why it's so small," Christian remarked, and they all laughed.

"You must have managed okay, since we never heard from you all day yesterday," said Leslie, "and this morning when Jasmine Bellflower left with Sweetheart, she was all smiles and thought her dog was in wonderful shape. She said she'd be happy to recommend you to pet-sit any other animals our guests might bring."

Anna-Kristina made a face. "No," she said decisively. "I'm surprised her dog lived through the weekend, quite honestly. Not that this means I think I'm a bad pet-sitter. It's that animal's eating habits. Small pampered pets like that would be the bane of my existence. Mr. Roarke, why don't you put them in quarantine?"

"Because I insist that all animals have a full range of immunizations before they are brought to the island," Roarke said, "and also that at no time whatsoever during their stay are they to come in contact with local animals. I instigated that rule when an extremely spoiled and very demanding diva refused to be subjected to the normal regulations regarding bringing animals here. It's enough to deter most people who aren't willing to take the time and trouble involved in the extensive immunization process."

"Under those circumstances, if you opened a pet-sitting business, you'd not be very successful," Christian observed.

"Quite so," his niece agreed. "But I still need a job, and since you won't let me work at the pineapple plantation and I'm not qualified for much else…well, there's only one thing left. You absolutely have to teach me to drive, Uncle Christian."

Christian cleared his throat and took Leslie's arm. "We're leaving this moment," he announced and started to lead her to the car.

"But—" Anna-Kristina began.

Roarke smiled. "Ask Mateo to teach you," he suggested. "It's not necessary for him to actually do any driving; he would simply be instructing you, and you would have no need to impose on your aunt and uncle for the task. But, if I may ask, why exactly do you wish to learn how to drive?"

"I'm going to apply for that open driver's position you have," the princess explained.

Roarke looked quite taken aback at that; he cleared his throat, straightened to his full height and made a show of checking his gold watch. "If you'll excuse me," he murmured, "I find myself unusually busy this morning…" With that he headed for the porch. Christian and Leslie, grinning at each other, hastily got into the car and made their own getaway.

"I wish Mateo luck," Leslie remarked.

"He's going to need it," Christian agreed, and they looked at each other and laughed.

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**A/N:** _Done at last! I made reference to three episodes in this chapter: Frank Barton (Chuck Connors) appeared in "Sitting Duck/Sweet Suzi Swann" (first story arc, from March 6, 1982); Vanessa Walgren (Joanna Pettet) featured in "King of Burlesque/Death Games" (second story arc, from March 12, 1983); and Nyah (Michelle Phillips) showed up in three episodes—"The Victim/The Mermaid" (December 1, 1979), "The Mermaid Returns/The Flying Aces" (November 1, 1980), and "The Mermaid and the Matchmaker/The Obsolete Man" (March 24, 1984)._


End file.
